


Easy Trouble

by Survivah



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fairies, HEA, Love Potion/Spell, Love spell related dubcon, M/M, Tropes, WITH A TWIST OOOH AAAHH
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-17
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-11-29 13:57:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 55,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/687748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Survivah/pseuds/Survivah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek+Stiles+fairies = love spell</p><p>  <em>"Make love to me," Derek demands.</em></p><p>  <em>What. </em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Poker

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again everybody! So, this is a twist on the usual "______ gets hit with a love spell and silliness occurs, but then the spell is taken away and everything is romance and nothing hurts" trope. Because I like some angsty with my cheesy. But have no fear! The angst won't come for quite a few chapters yet.

Stiles may only be 19 years old, but it’s been a long 19 years, and in that time, he’s learned a few things. Brush his teeth twice a day, don’t let Jackson get under his skin, take Adderall once in the morning and once at night, and don’t let Dad get the old photo albums out unless they’re both ready for a long, sleepless night. More recently: Scott needs a military intervention to get him to stop talking about Allison when he gets started, wolfsbane of varying amounts and strains has different effects, and he can get Deaton to give a straight answer if he bribes him with gourmet roasted almonds. 

But really, the most important lesson that Stiles has learned so far came with the Great Love Spell Debacle, as he calls it. That was when he learned that nothing good ever comes easy. 

XXXXX

When all of this supernatural ridiculousness started, Stiles and Scott didn’t go out looking for trouble to get themselves into. Trouble found them. And yes, that’s an excuse that Stiles has been using his whole life, but Stiles can honestly say that for a long time, neither he nor Scott was going, “I know what we should do. We should tick off an Alpha werewolf! We should get paralyzed by kanimas!” They’d never originally intended to get so involved.

Now though, they’re both old enough hands at dealing with mythical creatures that when it seems like the old population of fairies in the preserve are acting up, Scott, Stiles and company lace up their hiking boots and go check it out. 

But oddly enough, not before Derek of all people pulls Stiles to the side just before they’re all about to troop out of his loft, and hands him an iron poker. 

Stiles balances the cool black weight in his hands. “Um, thanks. I thought we were just going for reconnaissance? Not that I mind, because this is actually kind of badass. Wait, dude, are there actually protection runes carved on the end of this? Because that’s pretty impressive, how did you even-oh, Deaton.”

Derek shrugs, emotionless as always. “You’re apparently part of the pack now, annoying as it is,” yeah yeah, suck it up, Derek, “so you should get your share of protection. Even if it’s only a reconnaissance mission.”

“Besides, it looks cool,” Erica chirps from the doorway as she zips up her black jacket. Are werewolves allergic to wearing a nice primary color every now and then?

Giving the poker an experimental swing, Stiles almost clips Derek’s shin, making the Alpha roll his eyes irritably and make for the door with everyone else, grumbling something under his breath about Stiles doing more harm than good. Whatever. Derek hasn’t actually, actively disliked Stiles since the McCall and Hale packs merged. Maybe Stiles isn’t buddy buddy with Derek, but he’s buddy buddy with everybody else in the pack, so Derek just has to put up with him. 

Doing reconnaissance ends up being a lot of wandering around the woods aimlessly, trying to find traces of fairy dust. It’s almost painfully ineffective. Around two in the morning, Stiles starts thinking that maybe there aren’t any fairies around at all, and those hikers that had wandered out of the woods babbling about dancing people on fire really were just high on something, despite their clean toxicology reports. 

Stiles is paired up with Scott, since they’ve been each other’s buddies since their first kindergarden fieldtrip, and Allison is off training with the Olympic archery team. It’s sort of a nice kickback to the old days, wandering around in the dark forest, looking for something exciting. Stiles points this out to Scott, who is not amused. 

“Dude, that’s just making me more nervous. Don’t you remember that whole I got attacked by a werewolf thing the last time we were doing this?” Scott huffs. 

Stiles waves a hand dismissively. It’s the one holding the flashlight, so Scott winces as he’s briefly blinded. “I don’t think we’re finding anything tonight. The fairies are supposed to stay mostly dormant, right? They run on a different timescale? We aren’t going to see Tinker Bell tonight, you just watch. Maybe in another fifty years somebody will see something, but dude, there’s probably a reason that Beacon Hills has apparently had a fairy court in its forest for forever and nobody noticed.”

Rolling his eyes, Scott bends down to investigate something that shines briefly in the beam of his flashlight. It turns out to be a thin line of snail slime across a tree root. Nice.

“Maybe we should be looking for mushrooms,” Stiles muses, “you know, fairy rings? Probably easier to spot. Especially if they’re spotty. You know, those red mushrooms that have the little white spots, like in the cartoons? Actually, those are really poisonous. Deaton might like them, I’ll bet that fairy ring mushrooms are really good for potion ingredients.”

“Stiles-”

“Except then it would make the potion poisonous, which, you know, like potion making isn’t dangerous enough, right?”

“Stiles-”

“Seriously, remember how terrible I was at micro-pipetting during that biotech unit freshman year? Now imagine me doing that, but with toxic magical ingredients. I don’t know why Deaton keeps me around, apart from as eye candy.”

“Stiles!” Scott exclaims.

“What? Oh, hey. Fairy dust.”

Stiles was sort of expecting pretty golden glitter like they use in Peter Pan, but it just figures that they’re dealing with Unseelies, whose dust looks more like molten blue glue sticking together in globs, glowing faintly. It’s glopped all over an oak tree that looks like it would be great to climb if it didn’t seem so radioactive. 

Stiles texts the rest of the pack. Danny set them up with these cool gpa tracking apps in their phones, so they should be able to find him and Scott no problem. 

Pocketing his phone, Stiles inches closer to the fairy dust. He should have brought a sample jar. And maybe a biohazard suit. The stuff smells strongly of ozone to him, so it’s no wonder that Scott is keeping his distance, nose scrunched up in disgust. Stiles pokes the goop with his poker. It’s not dangerous, he’s actually using it for its proscribed use, so there.

The goop glows vividly for a moment, hissing, then it dissolves into the bark of the tree, leaving behind a patch of blackened bark. Stiles yelps and jumps a step back, then pokes the goop again from a more cautious distance. It hisses and dissolves again, and Stiles chuckles. 

“Scott, look at this. It’s really cool.”

Stiles pokes the goop a little more, swirls the pointed tip of the poker in it. 

“Scott? Dude?”

“Um, turn around.” Scott’s voice is doing that _oh shit_ thing it does sometimes. It isn’t good that Stiles recognizes that tone so immediately now, but he does, so he spins on one heel and takes a look at what has Scott so tense sounding. 

It’s a guy. He’s about six feet tall, has hair long enough that the top half is pulled into a ponytail, is wearing a blue T-shirt, a canvas jacket, and about 8 million pieces of jewelry. It’s incredibly obvious that he’s a fairy. The guy probably reeks of magic to Scott, but Stiles doesn’t need no smell to tell him that Jewelry Guy isn’t human. Stiles recognizes that aura that practically hums with energy. The guy is so wired he’s almost floating above the ground. 

Jewelry Guy taps a ringed finger against his pointed chin. Each of his fingernails is painted a different color. “So,” he chirps excitedly, “you boys wanna dance?”

He has an accent, and Stiles wonders if maybe the fairy doesn’t know English very well, but then Jewelry guy skips closer, and hooks an arm around first Scott’s, then Stiles’ hips. His body is cold against Stiles’ side, like an old piece of quartz. 

Jewelry Guy starts pulling them forward, and Scott starts struggling, but the fairy doesn’t budge in his march towards a patch of grass a few yards away. Scott starts yelling, and the fairy doesn’t listen, just chuckles and fondly kisses Scott’s neck. 

Stiles would help, but he’s busy using his poker to scrape a line behind him into the dirt. He figures that they’re about to be taken to the court, and since the altered bubble of timespace that makes a fairy court isn’t exactly covered by Stiles’ cell phone plan, he’s going to Hansel and Gretel it up in this joint, and leave a trail for the rest of the pack to follow. Never let it be said that he isn’t the smart one in his and Scott’s dynamic duo.

He feels bad for Scott, who’s getting a bit of a badtouch from Jewelry Guy, but Stiles is in Panic Planning Mode, so he won’t really freak out about possible fairy kidnappings until they’re either actually kidnapped or it’s hours after they’re rescued. 

Stiles is hoping for a rescue, himself. 

“Oh damn,” Jewelry Guy comments gleefully, “your pretty friend has some iron. Drop that for me baby?” One of Jewelry Guy’s long, pale hand drifts down his arm like a snake about to bite, and squeezes the sides of Stiles’ fist, hard, until it drops the poker. “That’s more like it. You could have really hurt me, that would be awkward,” he coos into Stiles’ ear, his cold breath practically arctic. He interlaces his fingers with Stiles’ and walks a few more steps forward.

Stiles catches a glimpse of white spotted, red mushrooms before the forest winks out. 

XXXXX

It isn’t music so much as it is a hypnotic beat that pulls at Stiles’ very soul, making him bob up and down, contort his body to the rhythm, throw his head back and laugh raucously as the bodies around him twist in movements similar to his. 

He needs this like breathing, like a heartbeat, and he doesn’t know how long he’s been dancing. For all he knows, he could have been moving since the beginning of time, since before there was a sky. 

In a past life, Stiles thought that fairy dances were like ring around the rosy, all the fae twirling in a circle, hands linked, flowers in their hair. 

Fairies have clearly upgraded with the times, since this reminds him more of prom when the chaperones weren’t watching. 

Jewelry Guy is grinding up behind him, his hips ardent and hands warm on Stiles’ upper thighs. Scott’s been commandeered by a green skinned woman without a nose, who keeps twisting his hair into tiny braids from her perch on Scott’s shoulders. 

There’s a weight on his shoulder, and Jewelry Guy’s head is resting there, grinning earnestly. “It’s fun isn’t it?!” he hollers over the music and the ecstatic cries of the other dancers, “it’s a party that never ends, baby!”

“Fuck yeah!” Stiles hoots back, throwing his arms into the air and falling backwards. A few pairs of hands catch him before he falls and set him back on his feet. They grope him a bit before they withdraw, but so what? These people are awesome. This is awesome! He’s like, one with the music, with the dance, with the people around him and the starless, moonless, bubblegum turquoise sky and the indescribable ground beneath his feet that may or may not exist. 

Somewhere in the sea of dancers, a burst of pink flame gushes up in a blazing column pointing towards the sky, eliciting a cry of delight from the dancers. 

Jewelry Guy whirls Stiles around so that they’re fully pointed towards the flames. “It’s the queen! Oh man, she’s so cool, you don’t even know. She’s coming this way, too. She always wants to meet newcomers to the party.”

“Oh, are there new people around here?” Stiles giggles. It’s funny. Jewelry Guy is funny. _Hilarious._

Patting Stiles’ hip, Jewelry Guy reminds Stiles, “you’re new, silly.”

Ah. Stiles had forgotten. He couldn’t be that new, could he? It’s like he’s been here forever.

A minute or maybe a few hours later, the pink flames part the crowd so that Stiles and Scott can get the full effect of the queen and her retinue of fire. 

She’s gorgeous. She dances like a wildfire, skittering along the ground for a few beats, before flipping into some improbable formation of limbs and hopping from step to step with manic excitement. The Queen dances alone, since the fairies can’t seem to touch her aura of pink flame, but she’s enjoying herself anyway, pulling her hands through her short hair. It’s almost white, and one half of it is shaved down to a buzz. She reminds Stiles of an avant-garde art school student, minus the pretension and plus a few more doses of hallucinogens. 

The Queen completes a three more revolutions, then swings around to stand stock still, feet pressed together, hands at her side. She claps once, and the music stops, echoing thunderously for a moment before it disappears. The flames around her disappear, and she moves a few bouncing steps forward, holding out her hand. 

Jewelry Guy nudges Stiles towards her, and Stiles shakily takes her hand. She giggles, a trilling noise like bells, and pulls him in for a bear hug. Her skin is just as cold as Jewelry Guy’s is. 

Best hug ever. Stiles feels like he’s been frozen, and he’s finally being drenched in water that might be hot, or might be cold, he doesn’t know. Maybe he’ll walk away with burns, but he doesn’t care. 

She beckons towards Scott with a single, tiny finger that has a tattoo of a snake running down its length. Scott whoops and flings himself onto the Queen, who wraps an arm around Scott and holds both boys against her chest. 

The Queen ruffles the hair on both of their heads. She looks their age, but Stiles feels cared for, loved, like she’s his mom when her iris-less eyes fall on him. “Look at you two. Are you liking the party? It’s sweet, no?” Her voice has the same accent as Jewelry Guy, it’s just higher. If a hummingbird were to speak, it would sound like the Fairy Queen. 

Scott and Stiles nod eagerly. It’s an awesome party. Forget Lyd-whatever’s post graduation party, nothing beats a fairy bash. 

“Awesome!” She crows. “Lemme tell you, human-land or wherever you come from? So lame. I mean, it used to be way worse, I remember back before you had internet and yikes! But yeah, it’s totally awesome here.” Jerking her head at them, wordlessly asking them to lean in closer to hear her words, she asks conspiratorially, “you guys wanna stay? You can totally hang forever if you want. Put your troubles behind you, babies, and dance!” She says the last sentence in a shout, and the fairies around them cheer, rallying to a familiar battle cry. 

That does sound awesome. No more worrying about his endless slew of online classes, or the latest supernatural menace, or his place in the pack, (seriously, what did that poker _mean_?) just dancing, and the joyously feral alternate world of the fairies. 

Stiles is about to open his mouth to say yes, and the black circles of the Queen’s eyes are expanding in eagerness when Derek bursts through the crowd of revelers and swings Stiles’ iron poker at the Queen’s head. 

“What are you doing?!” Scott explodes, “you ruin everything, we were going to dance!”

Isaac appears out of nowhere and slaps Scott across the face, which wow, Stiles did not think was something he’d ever see. “Scott, you dumbass! Don’t you remember all those stories about fairies?”

Scott looks blank, but then it dawns on Stiles, and he suddenly feels very unpleasant. They were totally hypnotizing him into dancing forever, or at least until he dies of hunger or thirst or his feet falling off. Rude. He feels dirty, not unlike how he did when the kanima paralyzed him. Stiles is not a fan of when people or things take his power of choice away from him. 

Meanwhile, the Queen’s eyes are almost entirely black, and she looks raging mad, little tendrils of pink fire flickering around her hands. Looks like the iron poker missed her. She must have crazy good reflexes if she can match Derek’s speed. 

The other fairies are drunkenly swaying in a circle around them, and Stiles wonders why they aren’t rushing to their Queen’s aid. 

She screeches and the pink fire explodes outwards from her, missing Derek by a few bare inches. Boyd and Erica materialize from somewhere and try to distract her, but the Queen just turns her skin to stone, so their slashes have no effect. 

Oh. They don’t bother helping her because she’s fully capable of helping herself.

The pack circles around the Queen, and Scott, mostly out of his trance, sticks close to Stiles. Maneuver 48B: Protect the human. Stiles doesn’t like it, but he has to admit it’s practical. 

Derek growls when the Queen pitches another fireball at him, and he shifts into Alpha form, all black fur and bristling teeth. He crouches, ready to pounce, never mind that it’s obviously a stupid idea, when the queen pauses in her offensive, quirks her head, and rubs her hands together appraisingly. 

“Werewolves,” she muses, and her voice isn’t a hummingbird anymore, it’s more like a crow’s cackle coming out of a bubbley looking art student. “You know what? Go.” 

Her flames flicker out, and she smiles broadly, drawing a circle on her palm with her other index finger. A matching fairy ring appears on the floor below her. 

“Please,” she gestures at the ring, “feel free to leave.”

Stiles wonders if the Fairy Queen is one of those people whose sarcasm is so dry that no one can tell if they’re using it or not. He personally thinks that’s just bad sarcasm etiquette. It doesn’t count if people think you’re sincere. 

Then again, she could really be sincere. It looks like the werewolf thing is a deal breaker for her. Stiles kind of feels like she’s being racist, even if it’s working to their advantage. 

When no one moves, the Fairy Queen screeches, “move!” and springs forward, faster than any werewolf, grabbing Isaac and Erica’s shirts, then flinging them through the fairy ring. They disappear, and the ring chokes up some of the goopy fairy dust, which congeals on a few of the mushrooms. 

Derek roars and tries to pounce, but she flaps a hand at him, and he’s surrounded by a ring of flames. Even Stiles knows that’s a cold move to pull on a Hale, and he would try to do something, he really would, but the Queen is terrifying and Derek’s emotional health isn’t his responsibility, thank god. 

Then Boyd walks calmly into the circle and disappears. Stiles has to admire that level of dedication in anyone. Even in the heyday of his obsession with Lydia, he probably never would have walked into a mysterious fairy ring that could lead anywhere, just to be with her, wherever she is.

The Queen gestures towards Scott and Stiles, and they hesitantly step forward. It’s amazing how horrifying a simple little ring of mushrooms can be. The Queen grabs Scott, who’s in front of Stiles, and flings him into the ring. How many muscles is she hiding behind those tie-dye sleeves?

Stiles waits for her to make him go through the fairy ring. Mostly because he doesn’t have the nerve to jump through himself, but also because he doesn’t want to fuel more comments about his habit of literally walking right into danger. 

But the Queen doesn’t make him go anywhere. Instead, she smiles wickedly, her dark eyes widening as an idea strikes her. Stiles does not like that look. He’s come across too many mythical creatures that crack that exact same smile before unleashing something horrific upon them all. 

She giggles, then sighs, “oh, I crack myself up sometimes,” before pointing two fingers towards her own eyes, then at Derek’s, like a bully in an old kid’s cartoon trying to be intimidating. Derek shifts back into human form and rubs at his eyes uncomfortably, but that seems to be the only affect. 

“What did you do?” Stiles asks her. He’s not expecting a straight answer, but sometimes these villain types drop an obscure little comment that will help them later. 

The Queen just shakes her head, and pushes them both through the circle, even kicking a dazed Derek straight between the shoulder blades with her combat boots to prompt him over the line of mushrooms. 

Stiles catches one last glimpse of the neon turquoise fairy sky before he finds himself in the same clearing he left who knows how long ago. If anything, this makes him more suspicious. If they’re home safe, then what was the Queen after? 

Converging on them, the pack runs anxious hands over them both, ensuring that they, too are in one piece. They are. Derek seems fine, answering their questions in his usual gruff way, and cuffing Scott over the head when he gets a bit too snarky. 

Feeling a little high off of their recent close call, the wolves stumble off to grab the backpacks of supplies they left behind earlier in the clearing. 

Before Stiles can go try to make himself useful, Derek lightly takes his elbow and pulls him in close. 

“Stiles,” he asks quietly, looking deeply into Stiles’ eyes, “are you okay?”

“Um, yeah? What’s up with you dude? You don’t even ask if I’m okay when you’re the one doing the injuring. I mean sure, I’m never actually injured, but didn’t anybody ever tell you it’s the thought that counts?”

Derek blinks and looks a little nonplussed for a second before continuing on, “I’m just concerned about you, alright?”

Weird. But nice. Stiles will take it, it’s not like he minds Derek caring a bit about his wellbeing. “Er, thanks Derek.” He claps Derek’s shoulder and Derek looks a little stunned. “But I’m good. I guess it’s a pity I didn’t get that badass poker back though.”

Perking up, Derek asks, “so you liked it?”

He looks like a puppy, and that isn’t a description often applied to Derek. Naturally, the asshole wears it well. 

Stiles shrugs. “It was pretty cool.”

Derek smiles softly, nodding to himself, then wanders off to grab his own bag, which holds a water bottle, a flashlight and nothing else, since Derek thinks that sensible jackets on cold nights are for losers. 

It isn’t until later that Stiles realizes that Derek’s eyes, when they stared into his, were slightly off color. Specifically, they were neon turquoise.


	2. A Teddy Bear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Also known as "the chapter in which Stiles makes a lot of lists"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much thanks to Afullrevolution for bouncing ideas around with me!

Stiles has lost count of the number of times a werewolf has come in through his bedroom window. He can, however, count on one hand the number of times they’ve knocked before coming in, smooth as you please.

The one and only time that Isaac came to visit him in his room. 

When Scott had to knock because Stiles had accidentally locked his window. 

Just now, because Derek has apparently had a drastic change of heart and decided that maybe Stiles is allowed some privacy. 

“Um, come in,” Stiles calls over his shoulder towards the window. 

The familiar noises of the window opening and being crawled through sound behind him, and Stiles continues tapping at his computer keys. This research ain’t gonna research itself, no matter what the pack thinks. 

“Do you have anything?” Derek asks from about two inches away from Stiles’ face. 

“Ah! Jesus dude. Personal bubble!” Stiles flails backwards, executing a particularly dangerous move on his rolling chair. 

“Oh,” Derek takes two sizable steps back, “I’m sorry.” 

Stiles eyes Derek suspiciously. “It’s fine. Uh, but yeah, no results for ‘eye color changing fairy spell’ that don’t lead me to those pink websites designed for girls under ten. As entertaining as fairyprincessdolls.com is, I haven’t found anything to explain the weird-” Stiles waves a hand at Derek’s eyes. They glint back at him, the same color as Lydia’s prom dress last year. 

Derek nods pensively. “Deaton wasn’t able to find anything either. There still doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with me, though.”

“Other than the as yet undiagnosed spell that a fairy queen cast on you two days ago.”

Sighing exasperatedly, Derek agrees, “other than that.”

Stiles spins in his chair to face the 200 pages of google results he has yet to filter through. It’s going to be a long night, but at least he’s gotten past the websites for toys and girly halloween costumes. 

“I, um,” Derek stutters out from where he’s standing awkwardly near Stiles’ desk, “thank you. For doing the research. I know it takes time.”

Spinning in his chair once more, Stiles turns to look at Derek. “Okay, so you’re being weirdly polite. What is it now? Some kind of bribery thing? Because I’m busy, go get one of your Betas to go do your laundry or whatever.”

Derek grimaces at that. “No. I just. Ah. I guess... seeing you in trouble made me realize that I’m... an asshole and I don’t appreciate you enough. You’ve been really helpful.”

“Oh. Thanks,” Stiles replies. He’s... kind of touched. Not even Scott has given him a thank you recently. Sure, it’s just a handy helping of post-disaster guilt that’s making Derek be nice to him, but Stiles can appreciate the effort. 

In the slight reflection of the computer screen, Stiles realizes that Derek is still lurking behind him. 

“If you’re going to stay,” Stiles points out, “you might as well make yourself comfortable.”

Derek quickly flops onto Stiles’ bed. Alright. There’s a chair, but Stiles supposes that a bed is more comfortable. Never mind that Derek always sits in the extra chair when he’s in Stiles’ room, but if the guy’s turning over a new leaf, he’s turning over a new leaf.

Tapping at a few more keys, Stiles finds himself on the bedazzled front page of mymagiceyes.com - find out the true meaning of your eye color! and settles in for a long night. 

XXXXX

Stiles really doesn’t need Derek in his room, supervising his research all the time, but apparently Derek’s taken that duty onto himself as part of his “turn over a new leaf” policy. 

If you cut out the part where Derek’s eyes are constantly, discomfortingly, on the back of Stiles’ head, it’s not that bad to have Derek keeping him company for day after day of research.

“No, don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against Tinkerbell, I just don’t understand what’s up with this rebranding thing they’re doing now. Why can’t she just be Peter Pan’s mean little fairy girlfriend? Why does she have to live in pixie hollow with her conveniently diverse group of friends? It’s ridiculous. What ever happened to sticking with the classics?”

“Exactly,” Derek groans from Stiles’ bed. “It’s just a money making game for those Disney people, so they stick old stuff in a new package for people too young to know any better.”

“It’s indoctrination, is what it is!” Stiles exclaims, “not to mention really unhelpful for my research. They actually think fairy dust is golden glitter, how ridiculous is that.”

He clicks to a new page. Glitterglowandsparkle.com. Aaaand it’s for stripper body glitter. How did that even end up in his results?

The sun is shining at an unhelpful angle through his window, so the computer screen is especially reflective, and Stiles has a good view of what’s happening behind him. 

Derek is leaning over from his usual relaxed position on the bed to stick his nose into Stiles’ pillow. His movements are confident, practiced, like he’s been doing it every now and then for a while. 

Stiles doesn’t say anything, because asking werewolves about their weird sniffing habits never leads to reassuring answers. He quickly opens another page to distract himself from _traumatizing_ memories of asking Scott why he was sniffing Jackson’s old lacrosse gear.

However, all of the questions that Stiles had been stubbornly refusing to ask, or even think about asking, get answered against his will later that afternoon. 

Derek is still hanging around, and since it’s about time for a mid afternoon snack, they head down to the kitchen. 

It’s nothing big that tips Stiles off, just Derek taking the carton of orange juice and pouring it into Stiles’ cup first, then his own. Derek doesn’t do that. Derek takes the orange juice and chugs it straight from the carton, making angry eyes at anyone who approaches him to take it away. 

But today, Derek pours a glass for Stiles, then opens the kitchen door for him as they head back upstairs. 

When Derek’s hand grazes against Stiles’ lower back as he leads Stiles into his own bedroom, Stiles realizes what Derek’s up to. 

Which. Huh. Hello unexpected development. Of all people for Derek to act like a lovestruck preteen around, Stiles hadn’t been betting on himself. But here Derek is, holding doors and pulling back his rolling chair for him like he’s a southern gentleman trying to woo a lady or something. Not that Stiles is a lady, thank you very much. He’s a very masculine man who appreciates the gestures because they’re nice. Not because they make him feel a little bit fluttery. 

Okay, so maybe they make him feel a little bit fluttery. Can Stiles be blamed? Derek _likes_ him. Taking a triumphant sip of his orange juice, Stiles revels in the feeling of being liked. It isn’t a feeling he gets a lot, so he’s going to savor it. Normally, he never has a clue if somebody likes him, but Derek’s being so obvious it’s really easy to tell; and it’s nice to be liked. Stiles can see how Lydia always has such high self esteem now. 

But wait. Derek’s being obvious... too obvious. What’s his angle? It would make a lot more sense for Derek to be after something than for him to suddenly, miraculously be into Stiles after years of mere toleration. 

“You said something about Honey Boo-Boo earlier,” Derek recalls from where he’s settled comfortably across Stiles’ bedspread. “And I have to disagree. I don’t care how ‘sassy’ she is, she’s a terrible example for girls.”

“Dude,” Stiles objects, “what little girl is watching Honey Boo-Boo? That’s not a show for little girls, that’s a show for adults that want to feel better about themselves. Therefore, it is a quality piece of television programming.”

“That’s not an excuse. All the toddler pageantry stuff is terrible, it doesn’t matter who the target audience is.”

“Of course it’s terrible, that’s the point!” 

They argue their way through the next eight pages of results, and it’s a pretty awesome way to pass the time. They have a rapport, or at least they’re really good at arguing with each other. Around the third time Stiles gets Derek to crack up, Stiles relaxes. Opposites attract, how did he forget that? Derek’s into him, Stiles is just being unnecessarily suspicious. 

XXXXX

When Derek calls the next day asking if Stiles wants to come patrol around the pack’s territory with him, since apparently that’s what Derek does on weekends, Stiles is faced with a conundrum:

Fact One: Stiles, while he thinks Derek is literally the hottest human being he’s met in real life, has never bothered to get a reciprocating crush on Derek in the years he’s known him.

Fact Two: Stiles, through years of painful experience, knows that it isn’t easy to have a crush on somebody who doesn’t feel the same way.

Fact Three: Stiles, while he has engaged in some semi-pleasurable drunken make out sessions, is nineteen and has never dated anybody. 

So when it’s time to reply to Derek’s question, Stiles realizes that he should answer carefully.

“Alright, sure! What time should I be over?”

Or, you know, he could let Fact Three override all of the other facts. Sounds responsible. 

Around hour three of patrolling, Stiles is coming to the grim realization that patrolling is more like a glorified nature hike than badass striding around in black, fending off invaders. Video games have lied to him. 

Derek seems to be enjoying himself. Outdoorsy werewolf bastard. 

“That’s a ring-necked pheasant,” Derek observes when a caterwauling piece of birdsong comes from somewhere in the trees. 

“Is that different from that grouse thing you were talking about earlier?” Stiles pants.

“Yes, pheasants are a different species than the Greater Sage-Grouse,” Derek huffs, as if Stiles is supposed to know these things. Whatever. He’s going to blame the California education system for all of his problems, now and forever. 

“Well excuse meeee,” Stiles drawls out, raising his hands in mock-defensiveness. “I’m not mister ornithologist over here.”

Derek rubs his head sheepishly. “I’m not an ornithologist. I just like birds.”

“Do you like chasing them then leaving them on people’s doorsteps?”

“Dog jokes?” Derek raises an eyebrow.

Rolling his eyes, Stiles navigates a set of tree roots and replies, “yes dog jokes, do you even know me?”

“I want to know you better,” Derek blurts out. 

So. Obvious. It’s sort of adorable though. It reminds Stiles of himself. Come to think of it, he and Derek seem to be similarly inexperienced in the dating realm. Stiles has a vague idea of Derek’s past, but he knows there haven’t been any girlfriends or boyfriends while Derek has been in Beacon Hills. Stiles can handle the blind leading the blind, though. He’s been best friends with Scott for years. He has experience.

Winking, Stiles shoots back, “well stick around, buddy. We’ll see.” Was that flirting? Did he just manage to flirt? Judging by Derek’s blush, he did. Awesome. 

Then Stiles trips over a root and loses all pretensions of suaveness. Suave-itude? Suaveness.

“Stiles!” On anybody else, that would have been a yelp. With Derek, it’s a bark. “Are you alright?” 

He pulls Stiles to his feet, dusting off the back of his jacket and the knees of Stiles’ jeans. 

“Should we go back and get the first aid kit out of the car? Did you skin your knees? You do that a lot, right?”

Stiles gives his leg a shake. Maybe a bruise, nothing worse. “Don’t worry about it dude. Pretty sure I’ll live.”

Derek still looks concerned, but he steps back a little, his hands slowly slipping off of Stiles’ clothes. “I don’t know why I brought you patrolling, it’s all crashing through the woods, sticks and rocks and thorny blackberry bushes-”

“Don’t worry about it,” Stiles repeats, clapping Derek’s shoulder. “Unless that crackling sound over there is a bear coming to eat us, it’s fine.”

“It’s another Greater Sage-Grouse.”

“Of course it is,” Stiles chuckles. “You know, I’ve always kind of hoped to run into a bear in the woods.”

“I don’t think _I_ could handle a bear,” Derek comments, looking dubious. “Why...”

“I was a boy scout for a while, you know. My dad was an Eagle Scout, so he tried to get me to do it. And they were always talking about what you do if you run into a bear while hiking, like bang pots and pans together, or hold still, or make yourself look big, I don’t know, it was a lot of conflicting information, I just know that I have to hang all of my food in a tree while camping. Anyway, so I always wanted to run across a bear, then, like, train it to be my pet. Hey now!” Stiles says to Derek’s disbelieving expression, “think about it. Bears are both badass and cuddly. And you could ride one like a horse if you wanted to. I never actually ran into a bear though. But! I had way more teddy bears than a self-respecting 11 year old boy really should. Come to think of it, that’s probably why Melissa wasn’t surprised when I told her I was bi. She went with me to get a lot of them.”

Derek nods, murmuring “teddy bears,” under his breath. 

“No judging!”

“I wasn’t judging,” Derek holds out a big hand in defense. “I went through a... parrot phase.” He spits out “parrot phase” like it’s a dirty word. 

“Like a pirate phase?”

“No. A parrot phase. I didn’t care about the pirate part. I just wanted a parrot to talk to.”

Stiles knows that Derek was home schooled for a long time, and it hurts his soul a little bit, to think about a lonely elementary schooler Derek with big eyebrows and no friends his own age, wishing for a parrot friend to talk to. Maybe Derek would have been more chatty now if he actually got that parrot.

Maybe that’s why Derek likes him. Probably not, but Stiles would like to think that at least one person finds his chattiness attractive. 

They end up sitting on a fallen log a few yards down, because Derek seems to think that Stiles’ frail little body needs to rest. Which, okay, maybe it sort of does. It’s been a lot of hiking. 

Spring is just starting to bleed into summer, so the air is warm and comforting, and the sun screams through the leaves of the buckeye trees to cast bright green light onto both of them. The log beneath them has been sat on by dozens of hikers before them, so the bark is worn away into the smooth layer of wood underneath, a perfect bench for a weary patrolman. 

Breathing in the smell of the warm trees and sweat, Stiles looks over at Derek, at the sunlight catching on and illuminating the spikes of his hair, and thinks that he could do a lot worse. 

XXXXX

Stiles finds out three days, four phone calls, and another touchy-feely research session later that Derek approaches romancin’ with a more straightforward approach than Stiles. Basically, when he decides he wants something, he goes for it, and shows up at Stiles’ front door with flowers and a teddy bear. 

It would take Stiles several months to reach that point. And that’s speaking hypothetically, because he never actually reached that point. 

Derek shifts the flowers and the bear nervously in his arms. “Um, I was wondering if you’d like to go to dinner with me sometime,” he mutters.

A bark of laughter escapes from Stiles’ mouth before he can stifle it. Derek looks terrified. 

“Or I’ll just go,” he says quickly, about to turn around. 

“Wait wait wait,” Stiles protests, “just, you took me by surprise, I guess.”

He just needs to process this for a second. Derek, in a very out of character turn of events, is asking Stiles out. With flowers. And a teddy bear. Is Stiles able to match that level of dedication?

Derek is looking more and more uncomfortable the longer Stiles remains silent. His big, turquoise eyes are watching Stiles intently, his arms still holding out the offering of flowers (roses!) and a stuffed animal. 

A number of thoughts run through Stiles’ head:

Fact One: Stiles hasn’t been into teddy bears in years. 

Fact Two: Derek once slammed Stiles’ head into a steering wheel. On purpose.

Fact Three: Stiles, while he has engaged in some semi-pleasurable drunken make out sessions, is nineteen and has never dated anybody. 

Fact Three wins out once again.

Stiles takes the flowers and the teddy bear. It’s lavender scented. 

“This is a date, right?” Stiles clarifies.

Shifting from foot to foot, Derek replies, “...yes?”

Excellent. Stiles grins. “So, where were you thinking?”

Derek’s eyes, already practically day-glo, light up even more.


	3. Dinner

Candles. Candles _everywhere_. Like seriously, how is Derek not uncomfortable with the sheer amount of fire stored in one Italian restaurant? Then again, Stiles can barely see Derek’s face on account of the candles being the only lighting in the entire place. 

The waiter hands them their menus with an arch of his plucked eyebrows and not a single word. Everything is written in Italian and really expensive. Like, the waiter might have accidentally given them the list of cars for sale instead of menus. 

Derek must have noticed Stiles’ distress, because he glances at Stiles over his menu and grunts, “I’m paying.”

Of course he is. Well, Stiles sure as hell isn’t going to complain. 

They peruse the menus in silence while the violinist in the corner crescendos his way through another piece of Bach. Stiles decides on something called Itabanza, since he thinks he recognizes “penne” somewhere in the description, and you can’t go wrong with pasta. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever been in here before,” Stiles comments. 

He definitely would have remembered if he had. An entire wall is filled up with a giant mural of naked gods and goddesses cavorting with grapes. A teenage boy doesn’t forget that sort of thing. 

Derek shrugs. “Me neither. I think it’s new.”

“Yeah, there used to be a toy store here before, right?”

“I remember that,” Derek recalls, smiling fondly. Oh wow, Derek should always smile like that, Jesus. “Whenever our family went downtown, Joey and I would beg our mom to let us go in.”

“Did you ever get to? I never did, because everything in there was so high end that my parents thought I’d break everything.”

Derek chuckles and nods. “My parents thought the same. Joey and I were very rowdy.” 

His face falls for a second, and Stiles playfully kicks Derek’s leg. There will be no mournful remembrances on his watch, no sir. 

“You ever watch Rescue Heroes?” he asks to change the topic, “everybody had the toys, but I was always more into the TV show.”

“Rescue Heroes,” Derek muses, “I was just getting to be too old for the show when it started, but didn’t they all have silly names? Wendy Waters the firefighter?”

“And Billy Blazes and Jake Justice,” Stiles adds eagerly. “They were so great, they could solve anything in twenty minutes. Like, earthquake? No problem, we’ll just save _all the people_!”

Shaking his head ruefully, Derek sips some of his water and mutters, “ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous. Really? You want to talk ridiculous?” Stiles takes a look at them: Derek in a nice button down, the violinist in the corner, the mural, all of the fucking candles, and it’s so absurd he can’t help but say, “ _this_ is ridiculous.”

Derek uses puppy dog face. It is super effective. “Do you not like the restaurant?”

“It’s not, like, offensive. Just, it’s. I never thought I’d be on a date with Derek Hale in La Ristorante D’Amore.”

“But are you enjoying yourself?” Derek asks earnestly, like it’s the most important question on the planet. 

Speak now or forever hold your piece, Stilinski. 

“Yeah, I’m enjoying it.” 

He really is. It’s funny, all that time he and Derek have been reluctant allies, they never stopped to notice how much they had in common: opinions on pop culture, a tendency to be judgey little bitches, finding each other attractive...

Wait. “Do you find me attractive?” Stiles asks for clarification.

Derek blushes. “Ah. Um. Yes?”

It’s settled then. “Cool. Right back at you.”

Smiling slightly, Derek accepts a plate of steaming whatever is under all of that red sauce from the waiter. 

Dinner goes surprisingly fast, and Stiles only partially attributes it to his habit of shoving food into his mouth like it’s an olympic race. Derek is a surprisingly good conversationalist, how had Stiles never noticed that before?

They walk out of the restaurant, and Stiles doesn’t feel like going home yet, so he points out the frozen yogurt place across the street, and says “froyo? Froyo.”

“Sure,” Derek acquiesces immediately. Obviously, because who in their right mind turns down froyo? Communists, maybe. 

Mostly, Stiles is tickled pink by how Derek looks in contrast to the candy colored, brightly lit interior of the froyo place. He may be wearing a fancy shmancy button up, but it’s still black, and Derek still has Old West action hero levels of stubble. 

Facing the long line of frozen yogurt dispensers, Stiles points a decisive finger at the pump marked “green tea.”

“That. I don’t care if you think it’s ridiculous, you have to have green tea froyo or you haven’t lived.”

Derek’s going to put up a fuss, Stiles knows. He probably wants some gross flavor like coffee, or boring like dark chocolate. Maybe with a garnish of a few pinches of oreo, black like his soul. 

“Okay,” Derek says brightly, putting his yogurt cup, flower shaped logo and all, underneath the pump for green tea frozen yogurt. 

Stiles follows suit, but only after feeling inordinately proud of himself for getting Derek Manpain Hale to try something new. Derek listens to what Stiles says now, which is sort of a rush. 

It would have been great if Derek started listening to Stiles before, say, that whole incident with the trolls, but better late than never. 

Derek likes the green tea frozen yogurt, and consumes every last bright green scoop. Stiles takes a picture as evidence, and Derek grins and poses with his pink plastic spoon. Erica is going to love it. 

They leave the halo of light in the froyo shop and find themselves almost alone on the picturesque but cookie-cutter streets of downtown Beacon Hills. A hopping place on a Thursday at 10PM, Beacon Hills is not. 

Stiles shivers a little bit when the cold air hits him, then startles as a weight is dropped around his shoulders. It’s Derek’s leather jacket: one of the newer ones that’s a chestnut brown color. 

Dating is awesome! Why hasn’t Stiles been doing more of this? No, shut up, let’s not go there. The point is, he has Derek’s jacket around his shoulders, froyo in his stomach, a clear night with stars above him, and the invigorating nip of a spring night in his nose. Life is good. 

When they drift past Beacon Hills’ Central Park, Derek jerks his head towards it. 

“You wanna?”

Stiles wants to. At this time of night, there probably won’t be any smokers or children taking up the swings at the playground. 

Although, as they walk through the dark, eerily deserted park, Stiles is glad that he’s accompanied by an Alpha werewolf. 

They pass the swings, which are gloriously unoccupied, and Stiles makes a beeline for them. 

“You know how often I get to go on these?” Stiles says to Derek’s puzzled expression, “basically never. Because it’s ‘creepy’ for a nineteen year old guy to play on a playstructure. So no judging, dude. Let me have my moment.”

Derek shrugs, “I wasn’t judging. It’s sweet.”

Stiles is not sweet, thank you very much. He’s an adult man who just so happens to enjoy playing on the swings when no one is watching because he likes the swooping sensation in his stomach when he leans backwards. So. There.

The chain is freezing cold, so he folds the sleeves of Derek’s jacket over his hands before walking himself and the swing backwards, then letting fly. 

Stiles has grown since his prime swinging days, but the swings in Central Park have always been set freakishly high, so he manages to avoid skimming his feet along the ground. He flops his head back, then screams in delight as the world turns upside down and his stomach flips fitfully around inside of him. Derek’s laughing somewhere, but Stiles doesn’t care, he’s too busy being a madman as he flies back and forth, careening from side to side. 

When he was younger, he dreamed about being able to loop all the way around the bar of the swing set. Nothing made you cooler than being able to do the full loop-de-loop. Or so legend told, Stiles had never actually met anyone who could do it. 

Although... he is older now. Longer legs, more muscles for getting himself higher up. And he’s technically still a teenager, and therefore qualified to make stupid choices. 

“I’ve decided,” he calls out to Derek, who’s bemusedly leaning against one of the legs of the swing set and watching Stiles make a fool of himself. “I’m going to do the full 360, baby. You watch me. I’m going where no man has gone before!”

So Stiles pumps his legs for all he’s worth, lying out almost horizontally on the upswing, then curling into a ball on the backswing. Gravity is still being a bitch, pulling on him at a constant rate and shit. 

Two large hands place themselves in the middle of his back, warm even through the leather, and push with werewolf strength. Stiles once heard a story about a truck that accidentally started pushing a guy in a wheelchair down the highway without realizing it. He feels a little like the guy in the wheelchair as he’s flung forward, and the chain of the swing runs parallel to the wood chip covered ground. Terrible cushioning, wood chips. Splintery. 

Derek pushes again, harder, and the cold metal of the swing screeches as Stiles flies farther up. Forget a truck at highway speeds, he’s strapped to the front of a speeding rocket ship. It’s terrifying and thrilling at the same time. Thrillifying. 

One more hefty push and holy mother of god out on a date with Buddha, Stiles can see the bar of the swing set directly below him. He’s made it. 

Just that second, his momentum gives out and Stiles starts dropping like a rock. He misses bashing his head open on the bar by about four inches, but oh god the whiplash is going to be terrible and he’s going to be picking out wood chip splinters for the next four years. 

Or Derek could catch him like a damsel falling out of her tower. 

Oh my god, he’s actually being bridal carried. What is this world coming to?

Derek, arms full of Stiles and swing set, looks at him from a distance of a few inches, and smiles sheepishly. “Not the best idea I ever had, pushing you.”

“Not the worst either,” Stiles points out, trying for casual while he’s still being held several feet of the ground. “Besides, we did it. I did the loop-de-loop.”

Rolling his eyes, Derek retorts, “you’ll be a legend on the playground tomorrow at recess.”

Stiles cackles and thumps Derek on the chest as well as he can, considering his elbows are pinned to his sides. He glances at Derek’s face and realizes that it’s really, really close, and Derek isn’t looking at his eyes. 

“You’re going to kiss me,” Stiles blurts out. 

“Ah, um, that was something I was, um-”

Derek is so _awkward_. How had Stiles never noticed that? He’s awkward, but Stiles has that ridiculous teddy bear on his desk for posterity, even though it makes him look like an idiot, and Derek pushed Stiles on the swings. Not even Scott would do that when they were in elementary school. 

So Stiles leans a little closer, gives a shot at looking at Derek seductively through his eyelashes, and murmurs, “well don’t just _talk_ about it.”

The green tea frozen yogurt was definitely a good choice, Stiles decides, because Derek’s mouth tastes a lot like heaven. He’s feeling lightheaded, and most of it isn’t from the swing set. 

When his neck starts to feel strained, Stiles taps Derek on the shoulder and makes him put Stiles back onto his feet so they can carry on. In this new position, Stiles isn’t sure if his favorite part is the softness of Derek’s lips, or his tongue, or the feel of Derek’s arms wrapping around Stiles’ back, wide hands splayed out until Stiles feels like he’s in a big muscly Derek cocoon. 

What must be days later, they pull apart, and Stiles can’t help but look around for film cameras. Has he slipped and fallen into a romcom by accident?

XXXXX

As they’re driving home, (because Derek insisted on driving Stiles to the restaurant even though he has his own car,) Isaac calls, and before Derek can even say hello, Isaac is blurting out, “you need to come to the loft, like, right now.”

“Why?”

“There’s, um, a fairy, ow! Sorry,” Isaac says to someone, “a faerie, with an ‘e,’ apparently there’s a diff- ow! A faerie wants to talk to you, and he keeps pinching me, so hurry up. “

Then he hangs up.

Derek turns the car around and starts heading towards the loft. His face is stony and determined, brows set in a straight, grim line. 

“Isaac didn’t seem... in trouble?” Stiles says hesitantly, like it’s a question. “Just annoyed. Which, you know, not great, but at least the fairy-faerie isn’t trying to kidnap him?”

Reassuring, Stilinski. You should be a crisis counsellor. 

“I don’t want the fairies near any of you,” Derek grits out, knuckles white on the steering wheel.

Stiles can’t really argue with that, so he sets his hand on Derek’s knee and sits in silence for the rest of the drive. 

Derek’s knuckles return to their regular color, but they still break the speed limit about four times over on the way to the loft. 

XXXXX

The faerie’s name is Fen. Stiles hadn’t thought that fairies -or faeries- had names, even though he realizes now that duh, of course they do. 

The faerie’s name is Fen, and he sits on the couch, legs primly crossed, hands in his lap, staring Isaac down. 

It isn’t that Fen looks intimidating. He’s wearing gray linen pants and a white shirt, the universal uniform of an instructor at a meditation retreat, but he has this way about him. No wasted movement. The fairies from earlier had been all about flitting from place to place, wiggling fingers, dancing, but Fen sits. Still. He nods infinitesimally when they walk in, and makes no other movement. Stiles is just waiting for him to snap and knock all of their heads off with a single well aimed roundhouse kick. 

Isaac stands up, looking relieved as he walks over to them. “This is Fen, the fairy-”

One of Fen’s pale hands darts forward, pinches Isaac’s side, then returns to its place.

“Faerie,” Isaac growls testily. “You deal with him,” he grumbles as he retreats upstairs. 

Now Fen is even more worrying, if he’s managed to test Isaac’s patience. 

Derek sits across from Fen in the large armchair that Stiles and Erica jokingly call the Alpha throne. He tugs a startled Stiles in to sit next to him. 

It’s really uncomfortable. Stiles’ hips are getting squeezed something awful, and he feels a little like a court concubine, all pressed up against Derek while Derek does his Alpha duties and interrogates the faery.

“What do you want?” Derek asks brusquely. 

“The same as you, I presume,” the faerie replies smoothly. 

Oh good. They’re going to have a short sentences competition. If they’re lucky, they’ll manage a full conversation by dawn. 

“I don’t want fairies in my apartment.”

“Faerie.”

“Okay,” Stiles cuts in, “first of all, there is barely even a difference in how you say it, secondly, why do you even care, buddy? Is fairy some kind of dirty word?”

One of Fen’s eyebrows raises a millimeter, then falls back down. “I only ask that you do not call me a fairy. I am a faerie.”

“Go ooooonnnn,” Stiles prompts.

“Fine. This brings me to my point, at any rate.” Oh yeah, pretend this was your idea, Fen. “Faeries have held domain over these woods for millennia. We respect the woods, and the humans nearby. We live simple, frugal lives, as is appropriate for beings that live by nature. However,” Fen continues, a hint of irritation in his voice, “a faction of us have come into power that do not prefer this way of life. They taunt the old ways, they imbibe human goods, they call themselves fairies because ‘that’s how it’s spelled on TV.”’ Fen’s voice manages to drip disdain, despite his face staying placid. “I propose an alliance, Alpha. The Fairy Queen has shown you disrespect. She kidnaps humans from your territory, and I know from my allies in the court that she plans to disrupt the stability of your pack somehow. She has shown me disrespect as well.”

“You want an alliance,” Derek says flatly.

“Yes, wolf. I assumed that was clear.”

Fen is more passive aggressive than Lydia when somebody starts getting into her chocolate supplies.

“It was.” Derek exhales sharply through his nose, and leans back in his chair, hooking an arm around Stiles’ waist. Oh yeah, now would be a great time for Alpha posturing, Derek. Not like an alliance would be helpful, or maybe help with figuring out what the Fairy Queen cast on you or anything. “What’s in it for us?”

Fen holds up a single finger, “you protect your pack from the queen’s meddling.” He holds up a second finger, “proper faeries only abduct humans once every few centuries. This protects your territory.” He holds up a third finger. “You will have friends in the faerie court if you help me back into power.”

Derek lifts his chin and looks at Fen skeptically. “Why should I believe you?”

Oh for god’s sake. “We accept your offer of alliance,” Stiles announces. 

“I-Stiles!” Derek splutters. 

“Derek, there is literally no reason to turn him down. Also, I’d really appreciate not being kidnapped all the time. I know I always get conveniently saved at the last moment, but it’s sort of ridiculous.”

Derek’s face relaxes, and his thumb rubs gently back and forth across Stiles’ waist. “Fine,” he murmurs, suddenly complacent, before turning to Fen. “We accept your offer of alliance. You’ll tell us everything you know about the fairy court, and we’ll help you back into power. As long as your rule keeps the wolves and humans in my territory safe.”

XXXXX

It’s not until Derek finally gets Stiles home, kisses Stiles on the front porch, then drives off, that Stiles realizes they hadn’t asked Fen if he knew what the queen had done to Derek.


	4. Another Teddy Bear

The absolutely unsurprising truth about working as a waiter at Denny’s is that it is a terrible job. Everything is eternally greasy, and the patrons are never in the mood to treat the waitstaff with dignity and respect. 

To be fair, Stiles doesn’t think he looks dignified and respectable in his Denny’s uniform, so he can’t really blame them. 

But out of all the tiresome, greasy, feet-sorifying shifts, today’s has been the worst by far. 

“Stiles,” says Merna, the manager, “I’m going to need you to do overtime today, Jolleen’s kid broke his arm and she’s busy at the hospital. Can’t come to work.”

Dammit Jolleen. How many times has her kid “broken his arm” by now? Stiles is starting to doubt she even has kids. 

“And you’re tables 14-20,” she tells him, looking at the diagram of the restaurant on the host’s podium. Stiles can’t tell if it’s shiny because it’s laminated or because it’s taken on the greasy sheen that everything in the damn restaurant takes on eventually. Sooner or later, Stiles is going to leave work and cause a car crash because he’s so reflective he blinded somebody. 

Tables 14-20 are in the back, and they’re the big tables, the ones that get parties of more than six. Big groups of people at Denny’s are inevitably rowdy sports teams or even rowdier kid’s birthday parties. 

On this particular shift, Stiles gets both. At the same time. But the sports team is little league, and some of the kids on the team realize just after they’ve ordered that they know the birthday boy at table 18 from school. And they have very vocal objections to not being invited to his birthday party. 

Stiles gets it, he does. Not being invited to a birthday party is the height of insult in elementary school. However, Stiles does not get why this means they have to have a food fight all over his section. One of the little buggers even stands on his chair and yells “fooood fiiiiight” like he’s in a cartoon. 

Cartoons never show the exasperated waitstaff cleaning up after the kids. 

And that’s just the morning. 

In the afternoon, a group of teenage hooligans (Stiles is allowed to call them that because he isn’t in high school anymore) trample into the back section, clearly enjoying some kind of after party for the matinee of whatever play they just performed in. Most of the teenagers are still wearing their stage makeup, so Stiles guesses that whatever the play was, it involved clowns. Terrifying, terrifying clowns with hellish smiles painted onto their faces that grin while they order pancakes. 

One of them brought his guitar with him. He seems to have left his talent at home, but that isn’t stopping him from banging away at it with the vigor of an over-caffeinated monkey.

(Stiles is allowed to be snarky because they didn’t tip.)

After the clowns, it’s the afternoon lull. Or rather, it’s what’s usually the afternoon lull, so Denny’s is understaffed when a _fleet_ of leather wearing, beard toting men from the “Pasadena Motorbike Club” trundle in, scowls in place, motorcycle helmets still on. 

The kitchen _runs out of hamburger patties._

The bikers aren’t happy. 

By the time six o’clock rolls around, Stiles collapses in the “employee lounge” (it’s a corner with two chairs,) already tugging at his uniform shirt. It stinks like sweat and exhaustion, and Stiles just wants it off, and his soft cotton tee on. 

“Stilinski,” Merna drones, “keep it in the changing room.”

“Ugh Merna,” Stiles rushes out, because if ever there was a time to vent, “it’s been a ridiculous shift, you know that? I mean, you must, because obviously you noticed when the kids started throwing stuff, and that pitcher of lemonade went everywhere, but I don’t think I’ve ever had to deal with so many crazy people in one ten hour shift in my life, and that’s saying something, because I’ve dealt with a lot of crazy people, you don’t even know, Merna.”

“Mmm,” Merna agrees blandly. “Busy day,” she adds before drifting back to the freezer to do inventory.

It’s fine, Stiles thinks as he drives home, trying to unknot his shoulders at red lights. Everybody has a crazy shift or two when they’re working in the service industry, whatever. It’s fine. Of course, if the online classes don’t work out and eventually earn him a job, or if Stiles goes the way of the 20-50% of people who drop out of online classes, or if he’s grossly under-qualified to do anything else, he could be working at Denny’s his entire life. 

And still living at home, Stiles reasons, flopping onto his batman sheets in his room. They were fun and ironic in high school, but now he’s not so sure. Living at home, working at Denny’s, maybe occasionally googling some stuff for the pack. And once things calm down in Beacon Hills? Then where will he be? Trapped in an elongated adolescence and a quarter life crisis, oh yeah. 

Not exactly what he’d been envisioning back in high school, when everything was roses, and a whole new exciting world had just been revealed to him. 

There’s a knock on Stiles’ window. 

Speak of the devil. 

“Go away,” Stiles moans into his pillow. “Not now!”

Another knock. Stiles rolls over lethargically on his bed to face the window. There’s Derek, looking for all the world like a puppy that’s been locked outside. He even has his hands on the glass, and his gorgeous eyes are wide and beseeching and “oh alright, come in,” Stiles groans, flopping onto his stomach and smashing his face in the pillow. It hasn’t been washed in a while, and he can smell that weird hair smell. 

One of Derek’s warm hands comes to rest on Stiles’ back.

“You’re sad.”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Ennui.”

Derek sighs heavily and settles into the bed with a creak of leather. 

“Nineteen’s a weird age,” Derek agrees.

Stiles makes a low noise of assent into his pillow. 

With another creak of leather, Derek leans over to place his forehead in the center of Stiles’ back. “Tell me about it?”

“You really want to talk emotions?” Stiles scoffs.

“I really do.”

Huh. Somebody’s acting out of character. Is this Relationship Derek? It must be. Relationship Derek is super sharey-carey, who knew?

Stiles gives an abbreviated version of his day, and Derek groans and tuts in all the right places. 

From where Derek’s face is resting, heavy and comforting, against the back of Stiles’ ribcage, he says, “I think you’re going to be fine.”

Oh, well, if Derek thinks so, then of course Stiles won’t fail life. Thank goodness for that solid piece of reassurance. 

“I know you don’t believe me,” Derek continues softly, “but you have perseverance, and you’re the smartest person I know-”

“-besides Lydia.”

“Lydia doesn’t count. My point is, you’re a valuable person, Stiles. I can’t see any reason you wouldn’t be able to do everything you want to do with your life.”

Stiles flips over so he can see Derek’s face. It looks a little forlorn, and a little bit... adoring? Stiles is going to have to get used to that. 

He will get used to that. His big, scary, unknown future is going to be a little less unknown, because Stiles decides then and there that he wants Derek to be a part of it somehow. 

“Just come here,” he whispers, tugging on the collar of Derek’s jacket so he can get Derek’s face on his level. He kisses it carefully, on both cheeks, the forehead, even the tip of Derek’s nose before leaning in to catch Derek’s lips. 

Derek leans forward, a tidal wave pushing Stiles back into the bed, and Stiles is happily drowning in pillows and Derek’s arms. 

In the gray evening light, Derek’s face is reduced to a suggestion in the shadows of Stiles’ bedroom. He moves quietly against Stiles, in rustles and gentle little sounds that fall from his lips like orange leaves. Stiles has fantasized about having Derek Hale in his bed before, but never did he think it would be so peaceful. 

Derek withdraws for a moment to shuck his leather jacket, and Stiles admires the ripple of his shoulders as he does so. 

“Oho,” Stiles teases, “all that flattery was just to get into my pants, huh?”

Looking at Stiles in utter shock, Derek protests, “of course not!”

“Dude, I know,” Stiles thumps Derek lightly on the shoulder. “Joking. It’s a thing I do sometimes.”

Derek tucks his face into the crook of Stiles’ neck. His laughter tickles and bubbles against Stiles’ skin. “I was getting comfortable.” Nuzzling further against Stiles’ body, Derek asks hesitantly, “I was wondering if I could stay here, with you, tonight? I... want to sleep next to you.”

God, how had Derek ever been able to convince anybody that he was a glowering bad boy? He’s adorable. His understanding of romance comes from shoujo manga, but whatever.

Carding his fingers through Derek’s hair, Stiles wraps his other arm underneath Derek so it can rest against the flat of his back, just over his tattoo. It’s still early in the evening, but Stiles sure as hell isn’t going to get out of bed now, so he grabs a book from his bedside table and rests its cracked green spine on Derek’s back. 

Hours later, when Stiles is actually feeling sleepy, Derek still hasn’t bothered to leave his spot buried in Stiles’ neck. Stiles might have permanent stubble burn there now, but Derek was astonishingly content to stay nestled into Stiles’ body until the moon was high. 

XXXXX

Stiles learns a lot of things from Derek. 

Spooning, for one thing, is incredibly comfortable, but very difficult for kisses. Plus, Stiles, a mobile sleeper, has to hold still when Derek decides it’s cuddle time. 

Derek decides it’s cuddle time a lot. Stiles suspects that it’s a wolf thing he’s been hiding to keep his image up. It’s hard not to feel proud that it’s around Stiles that Derek feels like he can let that image collapse and let his inner, cheesy cuddlebug out. 

And is Derek ever cheesy. Stiles has foisted a fair number of love poems and lacy valentines onto Lydia, but having it directed at him, Stiles finds, is not as nice as he always imagined it would be. When Derek feeds him cookies straight from his hand, or insists that Stiles keep his leather jacket, no really, I like seeing you in something of mine, Stiles never knows what to say. How could he ever reply in a way that matches up to that level of goopiness? 

But because it’s Derek, Stiles lets it go. Stiles doesn’t care that Derek likes to sneak up on him, cover his eyes, and whisper “guess who?” into his ear before kissing it. Stiles doesn’t care that Derek picks Stiles up from work with his camaro and a change of clothes for Stiles out of the blue, no warning. Stiles doesn’t care that Derek’s taken to calling the pack “our pack,” like he and Stiles have already adopted a horde of kids and opened a B&B in the scenic Vermont countryside. The silliness of it is nice. It’s deliciously frivolous, and Stiles can get behind that. 

Not to mention, the pack’s reaction to it is Hilarious. Capital H. 

_Stiles arrives last at the pack meeting, and Derek perks up the second Stiles passes through the door. Aw yeah. Stiles is one hot item, mmmhmm._

_“Hey,” Derek says, quirking a smile._

_“Hey,” Stiles replies, drifting closer. The pack hasn’t really seen them together yet, so Stiles isn’t sure of the protocol. Maybe they should have talked about this beforehand. Come to think of it, Stiles could probably come up with a whole bullet point list of relationship things to bring up with Derek. He’s so embarrassingly new at the boyfriends thing that he doesn’t know anything about the etiquette._

_Derek stands up when Stiles gets close enough, loops an arm around his waist, then pulls them both into Derek’s chair. Ah. Apparently the etiquette involves sitting in Derek’s lap during pack meetings. And his jaw getting a quick, affectionate kiss._

_“Concerning the negotiations with Fen,” Derek continues like nothing happened, using the hand not on Stiles’ stomach to flip through the Pack Binder, “he’s still exchanging information with Stiles-”_

_“Wait wait wait,” Jackson interjects, “what,” he flicks a finger between Derek and Stiles, “is this supposed to be?”_

_Quirking an eyebrow, Stiles shoots back, “do you just never listen when I tell you important things? Because I’m pretty sure I told you- all of you-” he adds, gesturing at the rest of the pack, who still need to pull their jaws up from the floor, “that Derek and I are dating now.”_

_“I thought you were joking,” Scott says hesitantly, “and we were having one of those sarcastic conversation things again.”_

_Isaac nods in agreement._

_“I figured it was wishful thinking,” Erica adds, using a claw to clean under her human fingernails on the other hand._

_Boyd shrugs._

_Stiles makes sputtering noises, holding his arms out in a “WTF” gesture. “Did nobody think I could bag a Derek? Because, as evidence indicates,” Stiles flails towards Derek, almost bashing his elbow into Derek’s face, “I totally did.”_

_“I’m pretty sure I bagged you,” Derek points out dryly. “Who asked out who?”_

_Eyebrows shoot up all around. A pox on all of their houses._

_“Of course you could... bag a Derek,” Isaac reassures, “I just don’t think anybody thought that you and Derek wanted to... bag each other.”_

_“Right?!” Scott exclaims, “am I not the only one that thinks it’s totally out of the blue?”_

_“Don’t be ridiculous,” Derek retorts. “Now, we were talking about Fen. The fairy -ow, Stiles_ you _don’t have to pinch me- the faerie we’re in an alliance with?”_

The pack can moan and groan all they want, but Stiles loves being out with Derek in public. He knows that in order to be a Class Act, there are rules that should be followed, one of which is that PDA should be kept to a minimum, but Stiles is pretty sure there should be a Derek Hale clause in there somewhere because who can blame him for wanting to show off that hot hunk of werewolf meat? Besides, Derek doesn’t mind it one bit when Stiles sits on the same side of the booth with him at restaurants and casually calls Derek his boyfriend when the waitress walks up. This, Stiles reasons, must also be a werewolf thing. Territory marking or something. 

Which brings Stiles to sex. Derek also teaches Stiles sex. 

_The trouble with California is that the weather is so mild, everyone gets lured into a false sense of security and few houses ever get air conditioning installed. But when the first heat wave of the year crashes in around late spring, everybody gets whiplash from the suddenness of it and has to lie around their respective homes as undressed and close to a fan as possible._

_This is the reason why Stiles is lying on the hardwood floor of the living room in his boxers, splayed out like a starfish, making a halfhearted attempt to watch the TV. He’s pretty sure there are heat waves rising from the floor, obscuring the screen with their... wavyness. Dammit._

_His Dad is out, because hot weather makes people antsy and ready to snap in ways that result in 911 calls. His Dad can’t be enjoying that long sleeved sheriff’s uniform right now. Or the outdated air conditioners in the patrol cars that scream the second they’re asked to reach a temperature below 67 degrees._

_Stiles may be in better shape out of the two of them, but he still isn’t loving the weather. Sucking on ice cubes is only novel for the first three cubes. After that, they just make his teeth hurt._

_Rolling over again, Stiles hisses as the coolish floor makes contact with his overheated skin. It isn’t the most comfortable, but it’s better than melting into a Stiles puddle all over the upholstery._

_Naturally, the episode playing on the TV is the one where Aang and his pals are trapped in the desert. Stiles can relate. He’s felt sticky for the past three days, and he wants more water the second he empties his glass._

_Which reminds him. Stiles hauls himself up and pads on his bare feet into the kitchen. When he returns to the living room, sweating glass of salvation in his hand, Derek has materialized on the couch._

_“Hey,” Stiles sighs, blinking dully. His eyelids are sweating._

_Derek waves with one lethargic hand._

_He’s shirtless, of course, left in nothing but a pair of basketball shorts. Which makes Stiles start thinking about Derek playing basketball, running and jumping, sweat slick and panting as he grabs the ball out of the air, holding it in his big hands, firmly but gently, maybe caressing it a little..._

_Stiles shakes his head to snap himself out of it. His brain sloshes around like so much melted ice cream._

_Unfolding himself onto the floor again, Stiles rests the glass of water on his chest. It’s painfully cold. He’s going to have a pale circle on his chest where the glass sat. Casting an eye up towards Derek, Stiles comments, “it’s colder down here. Warm air raises, in case you learned nothing in physics class. Plus,” Stiles shifts around further, stretching out his spine, “this has to be good for the back somehow.”_

_“You’ll drag me into a makeout session if I join you,” Derek points out._

_“So what?”_

_“We’ll overheat.”_

_Stiles could think of worse things as he watches Derek’s chest rise and fall with each breath, but instead he solemnly raises one hand and intones, “I promise to respect your maidenly purity should you make the wise decision of lying on the floor with me to cool off.”_

_Sighing heavily, like it’s some sort of chore, Derek levers himself off the couch and onto the floor, where he settles just far enough away that Stiles can’t feel Derek’s body heat. Wise decision._

_A bead of sweat clings to Derek’s temple, and Stiles reaches out with a single finger to wipe it away. It tingles, warm and salty, against his finger before evaporating._

_Derek rolls his eyes. “So much for not touching.”_

_“It was just a fingertip!” Stiles protests. “No harm can be done with a fingertip. They are literally the least threatening body parts ever.”_

_“Just a fingertip,” Derek agrees, running one of his own down Stiles’ throat._

_“Oh, c-come on,” Stiles pants, and it’s only partly because of the heat, “that’s not playing fair.”_

_The fingertip drifts lower. “I don’t feel like playing fair anymore.”_

_The fingertip traces the edge of Stiles’ boxers._

_“Don’t play fair, don’t play fair,” Stiles gasps out. He’s eager, so sue him._

_A gush of cold water splashes over Stiles’ head, mind clearing and incredibly uncomfortable. He leaps onto Derek, sputtering, “not playing fair! And I don’t mean that in the fun, double entendre way I did before.”_

_Derek’s smirking, the bastard. “But you’re cold now.”_

_“Hmm,” Stiles hums agreeably, noting that the cup of water isn’t quite empty yet. He dumps the remainder over Derek’s chin and neck._

_Startling, Derek bucks underneath Stiles, and they both gasp as the more interested parts of their anatomies come into contact with each other. So much for tactfully ignoring their respective boners._

_“Do that again,” Stiles demands desperately._

_Derek does, and they both groan. Widening his legs, Derek lets Stiles fall between them and runs a hand down his back. With their torsos plastered together, Stiles can feel Derek’s heart beating, the expansion and contraction of his ribs, the light murmuring of his stomach, but mostly miles and miles of skin._

_So Stiles sends his fingers on a road trip, traveling across the expanse of pale, sweating skin below them until they run into a roadblock. Pesky basketball shorts._

_Stiles hooks his fingers into Derek’s shorts, then glances up at his face._

_Derek nods eagerly, helping Stiles pull them down._

_What lies underneath the basketball shorts are one hell of a roadside attraction, and Stiles’ fingers quickly set out to explore it._

_At some point, Derek catches Stiles’ wrist, and tentatively pushes it lower. “Make love to me,” he demands._

_What._

_Stiles barks out a laugh, and Derek tenses up._

_“Sorry, sorry,” Stiles wheezes. “Just, uh, I didn’t know people said that outside of those romance movies from the fifties. But don’t get the wrong impression! I am 100% on board with the, uh, lovemaking. Sounds good to me, yessireebob. Swell. Neato.”_

_“I could just say fuck,” Derek grumbles._

_“Well not if you’re going to use that sour face while you say it.” Seriously, is Stiles drowning Derek’s kittens or something?_

_Looking up at Stiles with his big turquoise eyes, Derek explains quietly, “I want it to be more than just fucking.”_

_So Stiles makes love to Derek._

_He’s pretty sure it’s just sex with a lot of kissing, but it feels good, and when they’re done, Stiles feels like the ground under his feet has shifted a little bit, and he understands something fundamentally new about the world. This is why people go crazy when their significant other is taken away from them. To lose this, this closeness, seems impossible now. Sure, they’re stickier and hotter when they’re done than when they started, but it’s so much harder to care._

Stiles learns Derek’s weak spots. 

_The sun finally sets, and once it does, most of the heat dissipates, until nothing comes through the window but warm air and the purple light of dusk. A few birds are warbling outside still, but other than that, there’s nothing but stillness._

_Derek is a statue, carved to lie in repose across the Stilinski living room floor. They both passed out a little after round three, but Stiles has always been a light sleeper, so now he’s up again (in more ways than one,) and there’s nothing to do. Well, technically there is, but that would require getting up, and Stiles sure as hell isn’t going to do that._

_He should let Derek sleep. He really should._

_But Stiles is like a kid with a brand new toy right in front of him, and dammit, it’s Christmas morning, shouldn’t he be allowed to play?_

_Just a hand across Derek’s tattoo couldn’t hurt. In fact, it seems to make Derek’s muscles relax further._

_Until he wakes up. Whoops. Stiles moves to withdraw the hand, but Derek catches it. “Don’t be stupid,” he mutters, guiding it back onto his skin._

_Well that’s practically written permission. Stiles will just take that and run with it, thank you._

_He drapes himself across Derek’s back, settling into the now familiar space between Derek’s legs. Stiles chooses a leisurely pace, working his mouth across Derek’s shoulders, spending some time at the back of his neck, then moving further down Derek’s spine, tracing Derek’s sides as he goes._

_Stiles makes it most of the way down Derek’s spine, then starts kissing off to the side of it as he idly considers moving further down. Like, into Derek’s special place. Stiles isn’t sure he has the nerve._

_As he weighs pros and cons, Stiles idly swipes his tongue over a patch of skin somewhere on Derek’s lower back, and Derek freezes, tensing up below him._

_“What?” Stiles backpedals frantically, “what is it? Is my dad home? Oh god. No he’s not, he’s working a double shift. Wait, just, words, Derek! Use your words! What is it, Lassie?”_

_“Calm down,” Derek reassures, bending his arm awkwardly to press Stiles’ face back into the spot it just vacated. “You found my weak spot, that’s all.”_

_Examining the space on Derek’s back that he had just been enjoying, Stiles frowns to himself. It looks like any other part of Derek’s body. A pale, muscled section of back to the left of the spine and a few inches above where Derek’s waistline would be, if he were wearing pants._

_“You’re going to have to elaborate,” Stiles points out, “don’t just do that thing where you assume I know what you’re talking about and you get all werewolfy and cryptic.”_

_Derek grabs Stiles’ hand and presses it over his ‘weak spot.’_

_“It’s like an Achilles Heel,” Derek explains. “I don’t heal there.”_

_“So, what, you have a two inch by two inch spot where you’re human?” Stiles asks skeptically, “because you should probably tell the Betas that they have a kryptonite just sitting on their back.”_

_“Most werewolves never find their weak spots,” Derek rubs a thumb over it, “it’s too small, and at a different point for everyone.”_

_“So you...”_

_“I was unlucky. I found it. Or, a hunter in Montana did.”_

_Damn. They’ve stumbled across one of Derek’s angst pits. They strike at the most inopportune times. He and Derek will just be enjoying a nice conversation, then bam! Angst pit. Derek falls in and Stiles flaps his hands around uselessly, trying to get Derek out._

_Withdrawing his hand gingerly, Stiles reassures, “I’ll avoid it. Hands-off policy. That’s your no-no zone, message received.”_

_“When,” Derek asks testily, retrieving Stiles’ hand, “did I say you couldn’t touch it?”_

_Stiles carefully presses his fingers back down onto the weak spot. Maybe it’s just in his head, but that one spot feels ever so slightly cooler, like the furnace heat that werewolves give off gets cut out at that one point._

_Stiles knows for a fact that Derek hasn’t told anybody else about his weak spot. This confession, these words, aren’t ones that he’s told anyone in years. There is so much weight in this little 2 inch by 2 inch square, and so much trust packed into it, stored right underneath the slightly sweaty pads of Stiles’ fingers._

_To think that StilesandDerek have become so much. Stiles remembers when he let Derek take him to dinner just for the hell of it, because it would be fun, because he’d never been on a date before. It was casual. Ha. Hahaha. Not casual anymore. Bet you didn’t see that coming, eh Stiles From Three Weeks Ago?_

_Pressing his lips to the spot delicately, Stiles can feel them being fastened together. This isn’t something you can walk away from._

_“Hey Derek,” his lips rub against Derek’s skin, but Stiles can’t bring himself to lift his head further, “can I, uh,” it’s just so awkward to say._

_“Yes.”_

_“You don’t even know-”_

_“I don’t care. I trust you.”_

_Jesus. Holy high heaven being explored by a rocket ship. Is this... since when does Derek up and say that he trusts people? Stiles had always thought that Derek would have to know someone for at least a decade before he could admit something like that._

_Then again, over the last three weeks, Stiles has learned that there’s more to Derek than he ever thought. That he’s scarily perfect for one thing, and that he’s more vulnerable than he lets on, for another._

_So Stiles’ lips move against Derek’s back, shaping the words, “alright. Tell me if you want me to, you know, stop,” then Stiles presses his open mouth against Derek’s weak spot and sucks._

_He’s never managed to put a hickey on Derek that stays, so he doesn’t know what the proper level of time and suction is for a nice love-bite. By the time he lifts his head, he realizes that he’s overdone it, and it looks like Derek had a violent run-in with a vacuum cleaner. Stiles is sort of ridiculously proud of it._

_From the way Derek flips over and tackles Stiles into the ground, it’s clear that Derek likes it too._

There are other weaknesses too, that Stiles learns. 

Derek loves coffee, even though caffeine doesn’t affect him. He just likes the taste enough to show up at Starbucks every single morning. 

Derek is terrified that the camaro will get hurt by their... “high impact” lifestyle, enough that he’ll circle it, examining it from every angle, each time he gets out of the car. It was Laura’s. 

Derek gets nightmares, even now, years later, and he won’t go back to sleep afterwards. 

Stiles may not be able to patch up every one of Derek’s weaknesses, he doesn’t think he even wants to. But whenever they walk down the street now, Stiles hooks an arm around Derek’s lower back, covering Derek’s weak spot with his palm. It may not be much armor, but it’s what Stiles can give. 

XXXXX

The duffel bag swings forward from Stiles’ shoulder like a battering ram whenever he leans forward. It’s a hazard, it really is, but it’s the perfect overnight bag, so Stiles will forgive it of its weaknesses, even if it makes bending over and tying his shoes a pain in the ass. 

Just as Stiles finishes evening out the bow on his left shoe and straightens up, the doorbell rings. 

It’s Derek. Seven times out of ten, now, it’s Derek. Stiles’ dad comes up through the hallway, waving a hand. “Hey Derek!”

Derek nods and smiles. “Sheriff.”

“How are you all doing? This guy,” he pointedly looks at Stiles with exasperation, “never keeps me up to date.”

Ignoring Stiles’ affronted expression, Derek replies breezily, “alright. Fen and Deaton are getting along well, but we haven’t made much progress in rediscovering the fairy court.”

The sheriff rubs his chin pensively. “Alright. We haven’t had anymore traumatized hikers coming through the station, so hopefully the... fairies are toning it down.”

“Yeah, and focusing on the pack instead,” Stiles grumbles. “And why does everybody keep forgetting that there’s some sort of sleeper spell on Derek that could activate at any time?”

At both of their questioning looks, Stiles shrugs. “It’s my theory at the moment. Subject to change.”

Chuckling uncomfortably, since he still isn’t at ease with the supernatural, the sheriff claps his hands decisively and says, “so! I’ll be seeing you tomorrow afternoon, Stiles?”

“Yuuup!” Stiles chirps. “After all the wild monkey sex Derek and I have,” he adds lecherously, with added tongue waving and eyebrow waggling. 

Derek blushes, trying to assure the sheriff, “we don’t- it’s not ‘wild monkey-’”

“I don’t care,” the sheriff buts in, brandishing his arms in a ‘for the love of god, don’t tell me, please please don’t’ gesture. “As long as it isn’t in my house, where the bedrooms have shared walls.” He quickly retreats down the hallway, muttering something like “lord save me from legally adult sons.”

“For some reason, your dad likes me,” Derek moans as they move down the front steps, “so why are you so determined to make him hate me?”

Pulling his gaze away from his tragically broken down jeep, laid up in the driveway, Stiles retorts cheekily, “it’s traditional. You know how disappointed I was that he didn’t clean his guns at you?”

They happily bicker all the way to the clinic, where they are greeted by Erica, who intones, “and here is the Hale pack’s number one power couple, here to exert their influence over the magical creatures of Beacon Hills territory,” from her perch on one of the plastic waiting room chairs. 

“Ooh! I want to do it too!” Scott adds, before coughing and putting on a truly terrible British accent. “Here we see the alpha male of the pride arrive, with his mate in, uh, tow. They... survey the area, looking for... food.”

“It doesn’t work when you’re actually dealing with wolves,” Stiles laughs, collapsing onto one of the cracked vinyl benches. 

Then Fen and Deaton emerge from Deaton’s office, where they were probably painting each other’s toenails and managing to gossip while simultaneously being cryptic and vague. 

“Concerning the previous movements of the faerie court throughout California woodlands,” Fen begins with no introduction. 

Stiles takes notes destined for the bestiary, and doodles Fen’s razor sharp blade of a nose throughout the meeting, and by the end of it, he feels well informed about faerie and fairy migratory patterns, but he can tell Derek wasn’t paying much attention to anything Fen said. 

When they finally get to Derek’s loft for the actual fun sleepover (cough cough wild monkey sex) portion of the evening, Stiles brandishes his notebook at Derek and demands to know why he doesn’t seem to care what happens with the fairy court. 

Derek shrugs, “I just don’t know why we’re so worried. They haven’t done anything in weeks, and everything,” he says, running a hand down Stiles’ arm, “is going so well that I don’t want to focus on anything else.”

Of course. How often is it that Derek can have nice things? That he gets to just lay back and not have anything to worry about? And it’s true, the fairy court hasn’t been doing much. 

Besides, even if the fairies do get up to any mischief again, Stiles rationalizes as Derek tugs upwards on his shirt, Stiles has taken enough notes for the both of them. 

XXXXX

Stiles never used to be a morning person. He still isn’t, on weekdays. But there’s something about the leisurely drift into awareness on a Saturday morning, the loose recognition of the sun floating in through the window, and Derek’s muscled body squeezed between his arms (because Derek is secretly a teenage girl that just wants to be held, even if he doesn’t fit,) that’s just so Disney movie that Stiles can hardly handle it. He may or may not be hinting at Derek to start fixing up the old Hale House so they can wake up to the sound of the forest outside. Of course, it would be more fairytale if the Hale House were a thatch cottage, but Stiles will take what he can get. 

Opening his eyes, Stiles is greeted with the sight of two turquoise eyes staring right back at him from three inches away. 

Jerking back, Stiles lets out something like “nyeah! Unexpected eyes are unexpected!”

Derek winces slightly, a little apologetic, but still not looking away. “I was watching you sleep. You woke up sooner than I expected.”

Stiles raises an eyebrow. “Awfully paranormal romance of you.”

“I am a werewolf.”

“I walked into that one,” Stiles allows as he settles back down into his original position. 

“Does it bother you? The watching?”

“A little,” Stiles has to admit. “Like, what if I fart in my sleep? Not super attractive, you know?”

“Sorry,” Derek still hasn’t looked away. “Can I... say something?”

“You’re already saying something.”

“Ass.”

“You like it though.”

Once Derek is done chuckling at Stiles’ masterfully produced double entendre, he takes a deep inward breath, then sighs out, “I have this... I’ve been noticing that I have this need to be around you.”

Cocking his head, Stiles replies slowly, “I like being around you too? You had me thinking you were going to admit something terrible, like that you’d killed my puppy or something.”

“You don’t have a puppy.”

“I could have a puppy!”

“Stiles,” Derek huffs, “it isn’t just a want I’m talking about, it’s a need. A need. I have trouble sleeping when you aren’t there, which is more nights than not. When I wake up, the first thing I think of is you, and when I go to bed, and a million times in between. You’re my default. If nothing else is immediately going on, I’m thinking about you. I woke up four hours ago, and I haven’t wanted to close my eyes on your face, so now I’m functioning on four hours of sleep. It’s... worrying,” Derek admits reluctantly.

What does one say to that? I’m sorry you have a compulsive desire to be around me? Thanks, but please stop that because it doesn’t seem healthy? I’m flattered! You wanna fuck?

He settles for “are you okay?” Open-ended. Ambiguous. Lame. 

Derek shrugs, blinking rapidly like he’s trying to shake himself back to normal. “I’ve never felt like this before. Maybe it’s my wolf. Maybe it’s you. I don’t know. I didn’t... have much experience before. This might be normal.”

Maybe it is. Neither of them have really dated around before. Fixation could totally be a thing. They just don’t know one way or the other. Of course, Stiles hasn’t been losing sleep over Derek. He’s a terrible boyfriend. Stiles, not Derek. Derek’s been trying so valiantly to make everything perfect that even when it all comes off as too cheesy and overbearing, Stiles can’t help but admire the effort. 

Stiles gives an edited version of this to Derek, but with more pauses, unhelpful gesturing, and one really cool metaphor about a dragon. He makes it work, then coaxes Derek back to sleep. Stiles has done four hour nights before, and they are not fun. 

Around eleven in the morning, Derek wakes up again, and no sooner does Stiles hear the groan of the ridiculously noisy boxsprings of Derek’s bed over the mumble of the TV than he sees Derek rushing onto the landing above the stairs to look out into the open sitting area that takes up most of the loft. 

Derek looks terrified, and Stiles shoots up from where he’s been sprawled across the leather monstrosity of a couch with a friendly cup of coffee. 

“What? What is it? Attack? Do I grab my baseball bat? The wolfsbane? Deaton’s Homemade Magical Molotovs?” 

Attacks always come when he’s at his most relaxed. He should have seen it coming. 

“No,” Derek deflates in relief against the stair rail for a second before briskly heading down the stairs to meet Stiles in the sitting area. “Nothing urgent.”

Narrowing his eyes, Stiles asks, “nightmare? Because I keep saying, they aren’t just nothing, you don’t have to brush them off like that.”

“I didn’t have a nightmare,” Derek reassures, ducking in to kiss Stiles’ forehead. “I thought you’d left.”

Stiles changes the subject. He hands Derek his cup of coffee because Derek likes the taste more than he ever will. He suggests they watch some midmorning Star Wars, and Derek quickly agrees with him. At some point, Stiles starts making gentle fun of Derek for keeping a teddy bear on his mantlepiece. Derek retorts that the teddy bear started their whole relationship, and Stiles might be embarrassed to keep it in his bedroom, but Derek is sure as hell going to show it off. 

Stiles resolutely does not think about the expression of utter terror that was on Derek’s face at the thought of Stiles leaving. 

XXXXX

It’s been a month. 

A month of car doors being opened for him, kisses on his cheeks and forehead and lips and if he’s lucky (which he is a lot now, _yes_ ,) lower. Of dragging Derek onto the couch to rewatch all of the old scifi and fantasy movies he can think of, wearing Derek’s second best leather jacket like he has a right to it, and introducing Derek to people as “my boyfriend” as much as he possibly can. 

It’s been a month, and Stiles hadn’t really noticed, but Derek did. 

Derek apparently thinks that something managing to last and stick around for a month is cause for celebration. Stiles could have told Derek that he was planning to stick around for a lot more months, so no need to make a big deal about it, but Derek pounced before he got a chance. 

To be more specific, Derek pounced by getting his dad a lavish hotel room for the night all the way across town, then spending a good hour or two lighting candles all through the house and honest to god spreading rose petals across every flat surface available. 

Sometimes Stiles just does not know what to do with that man. 

But when Stiles comes home from work and sees the display, he can’t help but smile. After giggling his ass off, of course. 

He follows the path of rose petals into his bedroom, where Derek is holding a very serious expression, and another teddy bear. For the love of god, does the guy think teddy bears are the symbol of their relationship or something? 

“I don’t care what you say, that teddy bear is going in your apartment,” Stiles announces. First things first, he needs to get that straightened out. “It can make friends with the other one. Scott can give _you_ a hard time about being a grown man with a stuffed animal. It is cute though, is that an ascot? I-”

“I love you,” Derek blurts out. 

Stiles, it has often been said, has no brain to mouth filter, so the first thing he says is a startled, “what? Why?”

He was going to follow it up with an “I love you too,” but at his question, Derek looks utterly flummoxed. Mouth hanging open, head cocked to the side, turquoise eyes opened wide. 

He can’t come up with an answer. 

He can’t. Come up. With an answer.


	5. Raspberry Chocolates

The silence drags on. It’s not like Stiles wants an itemized list of Reasons Why Derek Loves Him, but as more time passes and Derek stands with his mouth ever so slightly open, the more Stiles would give anything for one of Derek’s awkwardly flattering moments, where he says something uncomfortably grand and romantic. 

Finally, he just slaps his hands against his thighs sharply. The noise makes Derek flinch. “You don’t have an answer?”

Derek’s lips move wordlessly, until he says helplessly, “I love you.”

“Why, though?”

“I don’t- you’re- I like you,” Derek struggles out, “you’re... Stiles.”

“Uh-huh.” Stiles sits down on the edge of his bed, heart pounding. They seemed so solid yesterday, but now he can feel foundations crumbling beneath him. Or maybe he’s just dizzy. About to faint? 

One of Derek’s hands rests on Stiles’ shoulder. It grips his muscle hard and Stiles can tell through his shirt that Derek’s palms are sweating. “Why are you upset?” he demands. “Are you alright? Are you sick?”

Stiles certainly feels like it. He remembers the last month, filled as it was with dozens of silly romantic gestures ripped from romcoms. Each so perfectly staged, combined with sappy smiles and words designed to melt anybody’s heart. Anybody’s. Derek could have been putting these moves on anybody and they’d have fallen for it. Stiles is starting to see what’s going on here. 

Derek’s been playing him. Not to be cruel, Stiles can’t imagine Derek being cruel, even if he feels betrayed and shaky and offset right now. But Derek’s been playing him nevertheless.

“Stiles!” Derek barks urgently, interrupting Stiles’ train of thought. “Are you sick? Do we need to go to the hospital? Your heart’s going wild.”

Stiles catches one of Derek’s wrists before he can start carding his fingers through Stiles’ hair. Derek knows it’s Stiles’ weak spot. “I’m... just. Derek, you know, if you asked me, years ago, why I thought I was in love with Lydia, I’d say that it was because she was awesome, or beautiful, or smart. Like that means anything. I didn’t really _know_ her, you know? Now, I could tell you that she’s awesome because she can cook gourmet French food, and teach other people how to do it in a way that actually makes sense, because she’s surprisingly patient with the people she cares about. You know? That’s a reason to love her. But back then, she was in my class -although not my league, lemme tell you- and pretty, and I thought she was cool, and I knew I had to have a crush on somebody, I wouldn’t be a kid if I didn’t, so I decided I was in love with her.” Stiles glances up at Derek’s face. The curved lines of worry in his eyebrows contrast with the hard angles of his face. “Do you get what I mean?”

It makes sense. Practically everybody else in the pack is paired up, Derek must have looked up one day and just thought, “Stiles is alright, I guess I’ll go for him.” It makes more sense than Derek miraculously realizing one day that Stiles is the man of his dreams, because, come on. Stiles isn’t the man of anybody’s dreams. 

Derek presses kiss after kiss into Stiles’ temple. His focus seems to be elsewhere. “Don’t worry, don’t worry,” he whispers over and over. “It’s okay, it’s okay, I’ll make it okay for you.”

“Derek!”

“What?”

“Is it just because I’m convenient?”

Staring at Stiles for a long moment, Derek turns to press another kiss to his temple before replying slowly, “yes?”

Shit. Angry gorillas throwing shit at startled safari-goers. He hadn’t been expecting Derek to be so blunt about it. Stiles’ eyes go out of focus and his heart drops right out of his chest, through his stomach, out his feet and through the floor. “So, you love me... because I was conveniently nearby?” Stiles clarifies dully. 

Derek shrugs. 

Shaking his head slowly, Stiles stands up dazedly, pulling out of Derek’s hold. He grabs his car keys from where he dropped them, only a few minutes ago, back when he was in a happy, meaningful relationship. 

“Are we going for a drive?” Derek asks. 

He really is a puppy. He may as well be dragging his leash over in his mouth, tail wagging. Not that Stiles will be seeing much of that soon.

Stiles is having a lot of trouble with his words. This is so unusual, all he can think is that maybe there are so many that want to come out, they’re all clumping together until no sentences can flow. A big clogged drain, that’s his head right now. Stuffed full of horrible, gross thoughts that he doesn’t want to get into too much detail with. 

He ends up saying, “no... I’m... I’m gonna... go. To my Jeep.”

“Why?” Derek asks, startled. “I thought... it’s our anniversary.”

Does Derek just not understand at all? How can he not get why Stiles is so tangled up right now? Flinging his hands up, Stiles shouts exasperatedly, “it’s been a month! People don’t celebrate their month-aversaries unless they’re in middle school! God Derek, you do all this stuff just because you think that’s what people in relationships do or something! It’s not because you want to, it’s because if you want to date me, you think you have to celebrate fucking month-aversaries! So yeah, I could care less that it’s been a month since you first asked me out.”

“I’m confused,” Derek announces as he walks slowly forward, palms up. “But just, calm down please? I got you chocolate, and I don’t know why you’re upset, but I got the stuff with the raspberry filling that you like.”

People don’t give Derek a lot of credit for it, but he’s smart. It’s irritating really, that he’s been blessed by genetics in so many ways. Derek has begrudgingly helped most of the pack with their homework more than once, and when he isn’t dissolving in a vat of angst somewhere, he’s a surprisingly good strategist. Which is why Stiles doesn’t understand why right now, Derek is being so fucking dense. 

I. Don’t. Want. Chocolate,” Stiles says, overpronouncing his words like an asshole talking to somebody that doesn’t speak English. “I want you. To want me. I could care less about the stupid chocolate and the teddy bear and that weekend at a B&B that I know you’ve been planning.”

“I want you!” Derek protests, “god, you have no idea how much I want you. All the time, Stiles.”

Stiles is pretty sure that his heart has sunk deep enough into the ground by now that it’s getting burnt to a crisp in the center or the earth by now, never to be seen again. 

“So, what, all of this was just to get into my pants?” he explodes. “Oh my god. I actually- I thought- I’m going. I’m leaving. I can’t-” Stiles gives up talking (gives up talking!) and leaves his room, gripping the rail of the staircase with white knuckles so he doesn’t just collapse and fall down the rest of the stairs. 

Most dangerous part of the house besides the kitchen. 

He makes it outside, and somebody is barbecuing, he can smell the smoke in the air. Normally, he’d be inhaling it greedily, enjoying the smell of summer not far off, but right now, it just smells like something charring, burning to a crisp. Stiles thinks about his heart turning to ash somewhere in the center of the earth. 

The front door bursts open behind him, and Derek is desperately calling out, “I love you!”

Is that all he can say now?

“Stiles, I love you, I love you, I love you, why can’t you believe me?” Derek falls to his knees in front of Stiles, like he’s some sort of harlequin hero. 

“Oh my god, Derek, get up. You’re the Alpha, for god’s sake.”

“No! I will not get up. Not until you listen to me.”

The car is only a few feet to Stiles’ right. He makes a move towards it, and Derek grasps him around the hips, then pulls him in until Stiles is getting hugged within an inch of his life, Derek’s cheek pressed against his navel. He feels like Buffy that time Angel came back all PTSD’d from getting killed and stuff.

“I’m not just in it for the sex,” Derek starts out. “Although, Stiles,” he breathes out like it’s a prayer, “I don’t think you know how addictive you are. And yeah, you were nearby. And I realized, after you’d been kidnapped by the fairies, that I couldn’t handle the idea of you not being there, or of you, not-” Derek gasps in a shuddering breath, and Stiles pets the back of his head in spite of himself. He’s weak. “I didn’t understand how I could have you had you right there, this whole time, and not have done anything about it. Stiles,” he breathes out again, “you’re perfect, you’re so perfect, I can’t stop myself from being -you call it ridiculous- around you. I want to give you things, and take you to a nice B&B, and have you in my bed every night and watch you wake up in the mornings. Listening to the radio... it’s like every love song was written about you! It’s like the earth isn’t what I’m pulled towards anymore, it’s you. I know this has been so sudden, but when I realized that you, that you were it for me, I wasn’t capable of wasting time. Not if it meant I could lose you. If I didn’t... If you weren’t...”

Oh god. Disgustingly sappy metaphors. Derek must be back to his normal self.

Derek’s arms tighten until it’s almost painful, and Stiles can feel his pelvis being squished into a new conformation. Now Stiles knows what it’s like to be a pole on a subway car, to be held onto with an iron grip because he’s the only place of stability in a rocking world. 

“Okay, alright. I believe you,” Stiles reassures Derek, whose fingers are rubbing mindlessly back and forth over the groove of Stiles’ hip. “I love you too. Sorry, I guess sometimes I’ve got low self-esteem, you know how it is. Hell, I guess everybody does. I’ll bet even Joss Whedon has days when he feels like the scum of the earth. Derek? Derek?”

Derek’s been staring off somewhere to Stiles’ side, frozen but for the fretful flutterings of his fingers over Stiles’ hips. 

“Where’d you go? Derek? Shnookums?” Stiles tries to unwind Derek’s arms from around his hips so he can kneel down to Derek’s level, but Derek just tightens his grip further. 

“Stay,” he whispers. 

“I am staying. Hell, you can even give me that stupid bear with the ascot.”

Derek makes a low moan in his throat and shakes his head minutely. He might just be trembling. “Don’t go.”

“I’m not.”

“Please don’t go,” Derek groans, his words tripping over themselves faster and faster, “you can’t, you can’t, what would I do, I’d die without you-”

“Holy fuck, Derek! Just, calm down!”

A low keening noise comes out of him, and it makes the hairs on the back of Stiles’ neck rise. The night suddenly seems so much blacker and emptier, like the puddle of light cast by the streetlight further down the block is the only connection they have to the earth, and were they to leave it, they’d be swallowed up by the abyss. 

Derek is terrified, and Stiles has seen him face down trolls with nothing but a determined expression and a harpoon. The world must be ending. 

Stiles reaches down to grab Derek’s chin. His hand slips the first time, but then he manages to grip it hard enough so he can get Derek to look at him. Maybe if he can break whatever hold Derek’s imagination is exerting on him-

The whites of Derek’s eyes have been consumed by turquoise. The bubbling, magical turquoise that Stiles has seen before, glopped around fairy rings. Derek’s eyes are even glowing. 

Then Derek looses his control of the wolf, and the last remainder of pupil in his eye disappears as he twists and shakes into his furrier self. 

Stiles gasps in relief as the vice grip on his hips disappears, but soon his stomach getting nudged at by a frantic wolf until he’s bowled over onto the still warm cement of the driveway. For a split second, he honestly thinks that Derek, in his magic-madness, is going to rip his throat open with his teeth. 

A warm tongue licks over his face and neck. Derek’s breath smells like raspberrry chocolate, that sneak. He’s still whimpering under his breath, and as a wolf, the noises are even sadder. 

Wrapping his numb arms around Derek’s furry back, Stiles hauls him closer, but the wolf is still shivering. Looking into one of his eyes, the featureless pool of glowing turquoise, Stiles wonders if Derek can even see past the blueness. 

“Shhh...” he whispers into Derek’s fur, just below where it’s wet with tears (can wolves cry, or is that a werewolf thing?) “It’s going to be alright. I know what the fairies did to you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. As the story progresses, are there any gaping plot holes I've missed that need to be addressed? Comment and let me know, I'm counting on you people.


	6. Scorched Mahogany

“Deaton,” Stiles gasps the second the vet opens his front door, “Derek’s under a mood swing spell.”

Deaton sighs heavily and buttons the top button of his pajamas. Pinstriped cotton. Stiles totally saw it coming. “This couldn’t wait until morning?”

“No.”

“Or be dealt with anywhere other than at my house?”

“No.”

Deaton takes in Stiles’ ruffled appearance: his Denny’s uniform pulled out of his pants, his hair askew, cheeks flushed, and opens the front door further with a tired nod. 

The sight of Derek, still whimpering and nudging against Stiles in his full wolf form, eyes mysteriously turquoise, probably also has something to do with it, but Stiles likes to think that he’s capable of garnering Deaton’s sympathies all on his own. 

Derek had spent the entire ride over trying to climb into Stiles’ lap while he drove, but eventually settled for resting his head on Stiles’ thigh, with one of Stiles’ hands nestled between his ears. Poor guy’s nerves are stripped down to fragments, and Stiles’ aren’t much better. 

It’s hard to take his eyes off of Derek. Stiles has always been a sucker for puppy eyes, and they’re persuasive even if they’re coming from a massive werewolf. They just stare at him, begging for help, looking like Stiles is the only beacon of hope in a dark dark world of emotional turmoil and confusion, with wolfy eyebrows quirked upwards, asking “why can’t you help me?”

Has the clock on Deaton’s wall always ticked so damn loudly?

Deaton pulls a few delicate looking bottles off of the dining room table, then jerks his head at Derek, who gracefully leaps onto it. Stiles follows, because it looks like Derek will shred the nice mahogany finish in anxiety if he doesn’t.

ADHD makes it hard for Stiles to focus. That’s practically textbook, that’s how it works. But tonight, it’s like everything else goes into a soft focus: the painting of the Alps on the far wall, Deaton’s experienced hands checking Derek up and down for injuries, the pervasive smell of frankincense, and all that Stiles can see is Derek’s face. Every last strand of fur individually growing from his face, the muted black shine of his nose, the occasional anxious flicker of his paws. 

There’s a rustling somewhere else as Deaton gets his magical vet kit, but Stiles is busy rubbing soothingly over the tips of Derek’s ears. They flow under his fingers like velvet water. Derek is so strong, but right now, Stiles is going to get him fixed up. They’ll reverse the spell, undo all of the damage like they always do, and Stiles will be the armor Derek needs. He pictures them laughing about this tomorrow, pictures himself resting his feet in Derek’s lap and reaching to grab a handful of chips from the dinged up coffee table that Isaac proudly dragged into the loft last March. 

“Sånté!” Deaton commands, and Derek is pushed back into his human form, naked as the day he was born. 

Stiles grabs a blanket from the back of Deaton’s couch and drapes it across Derek’s lap. It’s a point of pride that he’s the only person who sees Derek naked. (Okay, so werewolf related inconveniences make it hard for that to actually be the case, but Stiles still works to keep Derek’s nudity a “for Stiles’ eyes only” occurrence.)

“That’s cashmere,” Deaton bemoans to himself, but Stiles could care less.

“Derek, how are you doing? Are we still dealing with Bizarro Derek?”

Derek breaths out wetly, and wraps a hand around Stiles’ forearm before replying, “I don’t know what’s happening to me.”

“Hey, hey,” Stiles soothes, resting his forehead against Derek’s, “it’s okay. We’ll get you hale and hearty soon enough. Get it? _Hale_ and hearty?”

Chuckling halfheartedly, Derek pulls on Stiles’ arm until his hand is resting over Derek’s weak spot. Stiles dutifully shifts around so he can loop his arm around Derek’s back more easily. 

Whatever fairy shenanigans are going on, they’ll at least always have this. 

Soft steps sound from the staircase, and Mrs. Deaton slips out from the hallway, ink black hair tangled, her yukata disordered. “I smelled a charm?” she inquires.

Deaton gestures at Derek. Stiles can just tell that he’s giving Mrs. D a “you see what I have to put up with?” look. 

Mrs. D nods to herself, shifting her obi so it’s more secure around her waist. “I’ll go wake up Fen.”

“Fen’s staying with you?”

Stiles understands that there’s kind of a crisis going on, but he’s honestly too intrigued to keep his questions to himself. 

Retrieving a tub of purple ointment from his bag, Deaton explains, “He wasn’t going to stay with those fairies,” he’s developed Fen’s habit of sneering at the word, “and Yumena and I have a spare bedroom.”

“And you’re magical BFFs.”

“If you like.” 

Then Deaton starts running through a gamut of diagnostic tests with Derek. Stiles loses track around the fourth time Deaton uses silver for something. He’s so nervous. Which is ridiculous, because obviously Derek is going to be fine. They’re basically going to the doctor’s office to get some routine antibiotics, and the chance of this little infection being life-threatening is totally marginal. 

Of course, the possibility of werewolves being real was also marginal once. 

Fen walks into the room, wearing what is obviously an old pair of Deaton’s pajamas, and Mrs. D trails in after him with an ornately carved staff. 

Upon his arrival, Deaton tells Fen over his shoulder, “Stiles thinks it’s a mood swing spell, which of course doesn’t exist,”

It was a good theory, at least? Maybe Stiles isn’t Dr. House, but he’s at least a Foreman?

“but it isn’t any kind of typical western enchantment, it isn’t a Shifter Interference, and I can’t imagine a charm that would do this, other than Gale’s Undoing, which I’ve already ruled out.”

Fen taps on the ball of Derek’s shoulder with a pale knuckle, (Stiles didn’t think anybody could make Derek look comparatively tan, but there you go,) examines the featureless pools of glowing blue taking up Derek’s eye sockets, and, inexplicably, hits just under Derek’s knee to check his reflexes. 

“Hmmm,” says Fen. 

What is the use of having a faerie sidekick if he can’t even reverse a stupid spell?

“This... requires study,” Fen announces. “The fairy queen has used a spell unknown to me. My friend,” he addresses Deaton, “I will be in your library.”

Mrs. D tuts scornfully and brandishes her staff. “Men. Can’t ask for help. Fen, if you ask me nicely, I’ll use my divining rod.”

Fen stubbornly sets his jaw. 

Mrs. D stares him down. 

“Yumena Deaton,” Fen finally sighs, “would you use your divining rod to unravel the spell matrix?”

“Please.”

Looking like his nails are being wrenched out of their sockets, one by one, Fen grits out disapprovingly, “please.”

“If you insist,” Mrs. D replies sweetly, before gripping the broad staff in her two tiny hands and swinging it down to the floor, where it hits the hardwood with a sonic boom, leaving scorch marks.

“Mahogany,” Deaton notes regretfully, but everyone else is too concerned with the thin blue lines unspooling from Derek’s eyes. 

Thread after thread of glowing turquoise spins out into the air, tangling and contorting into itself like an especially complicated game of cat’s cradle. It’s the spell matrix, and it’s annoyingly pretty. There are swoops and valleys that look like mountain ranges, and a few lines that seem to be derived from Nordic runes. One interesting segment of the spell matrix loops itself into the letters L, O, L. 

lol. Fucking fairies and their chatspeak. They think they’re so trendy. 

Fen prods a few lines of the matrix, and they drift apart, like a knot being untangled. Stiles’ head whips around to check on Derek, but the appearance of the matrix doesn’t appear to be harming him. Stiles tightens his grip around Derek’s waist anyway. Derek never admits it, but he can always use some extra support. 

Pointing his thin rod of a pinky finger at a loop near the bottom of the spell matrix, Fen turns to Deaton. “Do you think?”

Deaton’s eyes flick to Stiles, and he’s actually betraying a facial expression. 

Stiles would have happily gone his whole life without seeing what Deaton’s face looks like when he’s pitying someone. 

“It’s unusual,” Deaton replies slowly, “but you did say that the fairies have taken to subverting typical spell patterns.”

“Midsummer Night’s Dream,” Fen scoffs. “Classless.”

Derek isn’t up to saying anything, too concerned with nuzzling his temple against Stiles’ shoulder, so Stiles has to point out, “you know you aren’t making any sense, right?”

“Yumena,” Deaton begins, “would you get us some tea? This won’t be an easy conversation.”

“Get it yourself, asshole.”

“I will get us some tea,” Deaton says smoothly. 

XXXXX

Stiles barks out a laugh, and Derek just shakes his head disbelievingly. 

“I’m sorry, what?” Stiles asks. 

“A love spell,” Fen repeats.

“But magic can’t mess with free will,” Stiles protests, “love spells aren’t kosher.” 

Deaton corrects, “human magic cannot mess with free will. Fairy magic works on a different plane.”

“You have read A Midsummer Night’s Dream, I assume,” Fen sips a delicate mouthful of chai before continuing, “Shakespeare was a hack, but the fairies have received inspiration from him, it seems. The fairy queen designed a spell. It is messy and inelegant, but it affects one’s perception of love using the medium of the eyes.” Fen’s pale eyes flick towards Derek’s technicolor ones. 

Derek raises his hand, the one that isn’t wrapped around Stiles. “This is bullshit. I’m not going to sit here and let you talk about how my feelings aren’t real.”

“Well, they aren’t-” Fen points out, before he’s cut off with Derek’s roar.

“No, I know what it’s like to think you’re in love when you aren’t!” Stiles, with a pang, realizes that Derek is talking about Kate. “I know how I feel, and I know that no spell is the cause!”

Under Stiles’ hand, Derek’s muscles are practically vibrating, and Derek’s face looks livid. Stiles watched a lot of episodes of _Cops_ when he was a kid, and he knows what it looks like when somebody is about to swing a punch. 

Stiles rubs his hand soothingly over the back of Derek’s neck. Derek may be angry now, but he’ll regret punching Fen or Deaton in the morning. 

“Derek,” he says slowly, soothingly. 

“No,” Derek says firmly, holding up his index finger reproachfully. “Don’t you try to do this too.”

“I’m not saying I like the idea, it-” would actually be terrible, in so many ways, “isn’t a nice thought. But maybe they have a point. Even you’re saying you’re acting a bit wackadoodle.”

Melting into Stiles’ hands, Derek allows, “I don’t normally lose control of my wolf like that.”

“Or get worked up that easily.”

“It’s been harder and harder to think about anything other than you.”

“Sometimes you act really out of character and even you look surprised.”

“I bought you a stuffed animal,” Derek says like he’s realizing it for the first time. “Two.”

“You’re under a love spell.”

“I’m under a love spell.”

Then Stiles realizes exactly what he just said. What they just said. 

Derek. Is under a love spell. 

Of course. Stiles can see all of the puzzle pieces fitting together. Memories and scenes from the past month, viewed under a new lens, and it makes so much sense. A love spell. Not one of those lust frenzy spells that show up at least once in every TV show about magic, but a love spell. A slow build, sweet glances, gentle touches in the night spell. Love like a rose, that grows big and red and beautiful, so that when it’s yanked away, the thorns are fully grown and long. All the better to rip flesh with. 

“The queen is ingenious,” Fen muses casually. “A spell like this would certainly harm the werewolf pack if allowed to reach its later stages.” 

Mrs. D agrees, “especially if the mood swings get crazier the longer the spell goes. I met a nymph that had something like that going on once.”

Stiles pulls himself out of his horrified stupor enough to ask, “what did you do with the nymph?”

Mrs. D flaps a hand dismissively, “I sent him to an alternate dimension. Nobody likes a clingy ex.”

“Is that what we’re doing with Derek, then?” Stiles asks wildly. 

They were supposed to be laughing about this tomorrow. He was supposed to bring Derek in for a quick magical fix, then they would walk away an hour later and everything would stay the way it was. 

“Nobody’s doing anything to Derek,” Derek interjects. “I don’t care if there’s a spell on me. It stays, and I stay.”

Stiles raises an incredulous eyebrow at Derek.

“I’m happy. You’re happy. Why do we need to complicate it?” Derek asks, like it’s that simple. 

A month ago, Derek never would have advocated for the emotionally easy path. If he could angstify a situation, he would. A month ago, Derek didn’t think he deserved nice things. 

“You aren’t yourself,” Stiles whispers. 

Derek’s face falls. 

Why did Stiles have to say that? Derek was happy, why couldn’t he just shut up about it and let them live their lie? 

Love’s a double edged sword apparently. He can’t let Derek stay under the sway of the spell. It isn’t what the real Derek would have wanted. But breaking Derek out of the spell will make him unhappy again. 

Not to mention it will make Stiles unhappy too. No way is Derek going to care about him when the spell is extracted from his eyes. It’ll be back to the status quo, no more diverging from the usual script. Derek will be back to growling, Stiles will be back to cracking jokes and not being important for anything else. In a few months, his time with Derek will all have been like a dream. 

Stiles kind of hates his encyclopedic brain for automatically thinking of Puck’s ending monologue:

If we shadows have offended,  
Think but this, and all is mended,  
That you have but slumber'd here  
While these visions did appear.

So he got a month of silly, romantic bliss. And now he wakes up, and it goes away. And by god, is he ever offended by those shadows. 

Turning to Derek, and tuning out the detached, academic stares of the three other people in the room, Stiles cups Derek’s face. Runs a thumb over a razor blade of a cheekbone. For a month, this face loved him, or at least thought it did. In a few minutes, it will stop. 

It’s so simple when he puts it like that. Derek loved him. It was fake. Soon, he won’t anymore. Then all will be right in the world again. Maybe in a year or two, Stiles will date somebody in his own league. They’ll be nice, moderately attractive, and maybe Stiles will even have fun with them. They might stick around long enough for Stiles to introduce them to the pack, then buy a house with them, then raise 2.5 kids, a picket fence and half of a heart. Everything will make sense, and this will be a story he can tell one day. Just one more magical adventure. “Once, there were these fairies,” “once, I was so happy,” “once, I had to do the right thing and let it all go.”

“Derek,” Stiles chokes out, and Derek’s face jerks up at hearing the tears in Stiles’ voice, “you have to let them take the spell off.”

“The spell doesn’t need to come off, I was just saying-”

“I know. But think about it Derek,” Stiles pleads. What is his life that he has to convince Derek of this? “If we keep the spell, I’m never going to know if this is what you actually would have wanted. You’re basically,” Stiles’ stomach churns at the thought, “love roofied. I can’t, that isn’t, I couldn’t handle that.”

Derek pauses, then, because he loves Stiles, (at least for now,) Derek says firmly, “you know what? I don’t need that spell. I have you. I don’t need magic telling me who to love. Who is there,” he gently nudges Stiles’ chin upwards so he can look him full in the face, “more perfect for me than you? You and me, we’re forever. I’ll bet you all of the raspberry chocolate in the world that nothing changes when they take the spell off me.”

Stiles smiles. He’s pretty sure it looks normal. “Yeah. You’re totally right. It’ll be fine.” Just keep him calm. 

As Mrs. D reconjures up the spell matrix, and Fen and Deaton bustle around, trying to reverse engineer an antidote, Stile just takes Derek in. He can’t say goodbye, Derek would just get upset, so he settles for wrapping his arms around Derek’s shoulders and hanging off of him like a sloth on a tree. He’s never going to date anybody as strong as Derek is. Or with as hilariously dry a sense of humor. Or who cares as much about other people as Derek does. Or who can look at Stiles like he’s the best person anybody could ever hope to know. 

Why didn’t he realize it was too good to be true sooner?

“If we unravel the Chain of Marcanos over here,” Deaton murmurs to Fen, gesturing along a part of the spell matrix that looks like a strand of DNA. 

“Yes, I agree,” says Fen. 

He reaches out a hand towards the spell. No time wasted apparently. Here goes. Last few seconds of StilesandDerek. Stiles feels like his limbs aren’t attached to his body, and the floor isn’t quite steady under his feet. 

“Hold on!” Mrs. D commands, and Fen falters uncertainly. Stiles would take a picture if he were in any state to appreciate humor at the moment. “Avert your eyes gentlemen, let them have their moment.”

Stiles would kiss Mrs. D if he weren’t so busy kissing Derek. He understands what it means, now, to pour everything he has into a kiss. He kisses for all of the times Derek picked him up after work, he kisses for the wry exchange of jokes, he kisses for the faith Derek always had in Stiles’ worth, for that sweaty afternoon on the living room floor, for Derek’s awkwardness that appeared at the most unexpected times, for swing sets and chocolate and stupid teddy bears and a warm bed and a warm heart. 

Then he pulls away. 

Then Fen unravels the Chain of Marcanos, and the matrix of the spell falls to the floor in so much sappy fairy dust. 

Deaton’s heart breaks over the reflooring he’ll have to do. 

Derek’s eyes are back to the pale green-blue they once were. Stiles hadn’t known he’d missed it until now. 

“So, uh, this is awkward,” Stiles rocks back and forth onto his heels. “How bout this weather, huh? Crazy, am I right? Anybody got any good weekend plans?”

“I was planning on taking you to brunch at that place in the city,” Derek replies casually. 

Stiles is pretty sure that the eyes of everyone in the room besides Derek widen to the size of dinner plates. 

Cracking a grin, Derek points out smugly, “I told you didn’t I? Everything was going to be fine.”

XXXXX

Later, as they put the dishes away and watch the retreating headlights of Stiles’ jeep out the window, Deaton asks Fen, “are you certain you reversed the spell properly? We were mostly going off of guesswork, after all.”

His friend shrugs as he methodically wipes the last few droplets of water off of the china. (Porcelain, with lilac watercolor on the side.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IDK if anybody's ever mentioned Deaton's marital status, but I figured he's an attractive, successful guy with his own vet clinic, what lady wouldn't want to snatch that up?


	7. Disappointment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word to the wise: don't embark on a 40k writing project when tech and show week of the school play are coming up. I apologize for the delay. Also for this chapter. You'll get what I mean.

Stiles toys with the carnation in the miniature vase. Going out to eat with Derek always involves restaurants with flowers. Reproductive organs all over the place. Plant reproductive organs that is. Any other kind are going to have to wait until they leave the public place. 

Nudging his foot gently under the table, Derek says gently, “you seem uncomfortable.”

Stiles shrugs. “I guess, I mean, it’s sort of crazy, don’t you think? Like I thought I was seeing ghosts, but then it turned out that I was a ghost the whole time?”

“Who’s the ghost in this, me or you?” Derek inquires. 

“My point,” Stiles loads up his fork with more eggs, “is that I thought everything was one way, and it wasn’t, but now we’re back to normal? I dunno, like, it’s just weird. But whatever, obviously it’s not bothering you, unless waffles are your comfort food,” he points his fork at Derek’s plate, “actually, waffles could totally be a comfort food. Wait, they’re my comfort food!”

Cautiously raising an eyebrow, Derek transfers one of his waffles to Stiles’ plate. “And clearly you need it more than I do. I’m fine, Stiles,” he reassures firmly. 

Stiles moves the waffle back to Derek’s plate. Derek will never admit it, but he likes waffles more than anybody Stiles knows. He’s a seven year old at heart, and there’s been many a morning when Stiles served up waffles with whipped cream smiley faces and big, manly Derek didn’t make a noise of protest. 

“I’m calm,” Derek explains as he spears a square of waffle, “because nothing’s really changed. Before we went to Deaton’s, there was this fire burning in me to be near you, and close to you, and good to you. Like a compulsion.”

“But now that’s gone?”

Derek looks startled. “Of course not. That’s just love, I guess. It’s makes it hard to function sometimes.”

Stiles fiddles with the straw of his drink, watching the plastic turn white as he contorts it to and fro. How is it that even when Derek isn’t bewitched, he still manages to out-romance Stiles? Here Stiles had been hoping that the reason Derek had always been so astonishingly devoted was because of the spell. Apparently he’s just always amazing and Stiles can’t rouse a proper level of fiery romantic compulsion. Maybe he should try writing bad poetry about Derek. Scott could probably give him some tips. 

At least when they leave the restaurant, Derek forgets to hold the door like he usually does. Balances things out a little. 

XXXXX

“I thought magic couldn’t mess with free will,” Isaac runs a hand through his curls in confusion. 

“So did I, but apparently fairy magic can. Crazy, right?” Stiles asks as he slams the meat tenderizer down onto one of the sides of meat on the counter. “I totally did not see it coming. Like, plot twist out of nowhere!”

Isaac doesn’t say anything for a while, just carefully mixes together a bowl of spices. “I dunno. I could see it.”

Stiles brings down the tenderizer again. He misses and it hits the table with a bang. “What do you, uh, when you say that, I mean, it’s cool, I’m not offended or anything, but just, uh, you could see that?”

“Don’t get weirded out,” Isaac says quickly, “Derek was just acting sort of strange for the past month, is all. I mean, you know what I’m talking about, right?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says softly, “yeah I do.”

Bless him, Isaac falls silent again. Stiles appreciates that characteristic in a person, heaven knows he’s terrible at it himself. They work through preparing the meat, and the sounds of the rest of the pack outside, milling around the grill, filter through the back door. Derek’s gruffly barking something at Erica. Stiles had forgotten that he used to do that. 

Without any conscious thought, Stiles’ mouth opens and blurts out, “Sometimes I think about how he didn’t have a choice and I just-” he makes a grossed out face and wiggles his fingers. 

Isaac nods pensively. “I can’t say anything that would make that untrue.”

Isaac’s the most emotionally aware out of any of them, and it sucks.

Derek bursts in through the back door, hollering behind him, “put that down, Scott!” before holding out his hands to the two men at the kitchen counter. 

Isaac hands Derek the tray of meat, and Derek makes a grunt of approval before pivoting to exit through the back door again. 

“Oh!” Derek stops short, tossing his head up like he’s forgotten something. “Stiles.” 

Like he’s checking off an item on a to-do list, Derek comes back to the counter and kisses Stiles on the cheek. “Sorry,” he says ruefully. 

The back door slams shut behind him when he goes. 

XXXXX

Stiles surveys the snowdrifts of rose petals that have accumulated on his bed. They’ve all shriveled up from so long lying out in the air. He sweeps some of the curling red petals off of his bedspread and remarks, “they never tell you how inconvenient it is to clean up these things. They’re like those styrofoam packing peanuts when you let them out of the box. Except less fun to crush.”

He bends over the bed to brush a few off of his pillow. They tumble down and down and down onto the floor, where they mix with the dust ground into his carpet. 

A line of warmth comes up behind him, gripping his hips, and Derek rumbles, “I had plans for our month-iversary. We got distracted, but,” he runs his fingertips underneath Stiles’ waistband, “how about we pick up where we left off?”

Stiles lets Derek push him down onto the bed. It’s familiar. Like riding a bicycle. 

“That was one hell of a line you used back there,” Stiles has to point out as Derek efficiently pulls down his jeans, “don’t think I’m going to let that slip, Mr. Casanova. Although,” he muses as Derek quickly unbuckles his belt, “anything beats ‘make love to me.’ Yikes.”

Derek chuckles ruefully as he presses down onto him, skin overhot and expectant. “So stupid,” he mutters to himself, before reaching one hand underneath Stiles’ body, and effectively purging any coherent thought from Stiles’ head.

XXXXX

Stiles pauses CoD and checks his phone. He thought he heard a text message coming in. 

Nothing. The Phantom Text Noise strikes again. Wishful thinking.

XXXXX

Stiles slaps the folders of fairy info onto the coffee table, then sits himself down onto Derek’s lap. It’s still his spot, dammit. Jackson can take his sour look elsewhere. 

“If I could,” Lydia inquires in a tone that makes it clear that she _will_ whether you like it or not, “I’ve made some progress on deciphering the directionality of the fairy dust in the preserve.”

“Wait,” Derek rubs a hand across his forehead, “when did we start... _analyzing_ the fairy dust?”

“Last week,” Lydia answers promptly, before carrying on, “my point being that the theory we had about the fairies converting to a nomadic lifestyle? Seems to have some merit.”

“When did we talk about nomadic fairies?” Derek asks Stiles quietly. 

“Two weeks ago,” Scott answers.

Come on, Scott. It’s basic werewolf etiquette to pretend that you can only hear at human levels. 

Lydia eyes them all murderously. Scott mimes zipping his lips. 

“So,” she bites out, “if we’re all done interrupting. The fairies have migrated south, which explains why we haven’t found any more evidence of them here.”

Stiles taps his chin with his forefinger. “So do we follow them? We’ve got basically the most info on fairies than anybody else in the state, we can’t just let the fairies run off to LA or wherever and go nuts with nobody to swoop in and save the day, you know?”

“I’d like to see the Espinoza pack try to deal with fairies,” Boyd mutters grimly. 

Boyd and the Espinoza pack did not mix well the one time they met. 

“The Espinozas wouldn’t know a lemonwort tincture if it bit them in the ass,” Erica agrees. 

Erica and the Espinozas had mixed even worse.

To Derek’s questioning expression, Stiles explains, “lemonwort tinctures give fairies allergic reactions. We talked about that-”

“-weeks ago,” Derek finishes with the air of someone fed up. “Where was I when we all talked about this?”

“Sticking your tongue down-”

“Rhetorical question, Jackson,” Derek growls. 

Stiles feels Derek tense underneath him for a moment as he thinks, then doesn’t feel anything at all as he’s abruptly displaced from his perch on Derek’s lap and sent bouncing against the other cushions on the couch. He can feel a cool vacuum of air where Derek used to be. 

Derek leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees, looking at every member of the pack in turn. “I need to be updated. Tell me everything you learned while I was... out.”

XXXXX

Derek takes the last bite of his steak, grilled to perfection by Isaac and Stiles, master chefs extraordinaire. 

“Hey Stiles.”

“What?”

“Can I have the rest of your steak?”

“I’m kind of eating it, dude.”

“I kind of have a werewolf appetite.”

“I’m a teenage guy.”

Derek pouts. 

Dammit. 

Stiles passes Derek the rest of his steak, then stands up to go scrounge up a hot dog bun or something. 

XXXXX

It’s dark when Stiles wakes up. Sex always messes with his sleep pattern, shifts him out of step with normal routines. It’s two in the morning and he’s wide awake. 

Derek lies next to him. Lately, instead of his usual stick like glue cuddling technique, he’s taken to sleeping like he’s just collapsed after a long fight. Limbs strewn across the battlefield of a bed, hair sticking out every way except for the direction it’s supposed to go. His right hand is clenched into a fist. 

Stiles gently reaches out to uncurl Derek’s white knuckled fingers. It always has to be a fight with this man. Stiles had thought that Derek was giving up his siege on life, but was proven wrong in the worst way when they uncoiled the spell from Derek’s eyes. Something incredible would be needed for Derek to give up the fierceness coiled up inside his muscles now. He has warrior carved into his bones. 

Prying Derek’s fingers open in the liquid blackness of the early morning, Stiles finds a cluster of rose petals crumpled into Derek’s palm. He can’t even smell the scent of them anymore, they’ve been crushed so. Derek must have found the last few still lingering on Stiles’ bed after their vigorous rechristening of it. 

Eight petals. What possessed Derek to gather them up? Once, Stiles was able to read him like a book. A book with cardboard pages and bright illustrations. Now, he’s a tome tucked away on a high shelf, and Stiles can’t find a ladder. 

XXXXX

Zuko is about halfway through cutting off his weird ponytail thing when Derek finally shows up, using his key to come straight into the Stilinski living room. 

Stiles dramatically splays a hand over his heart. “Where have you been? I thought you were gone forever! Dead! Deceased! Shuffled off the mortal coil!”

Derek watches him blankly for a moment before his familiar expression of tolerant amusement snaps onto his face. “I’m seven minutes late.”

“Seven minutes,” Stiles gasps out, “during which I was fraught with angst! Angst, Derek! You know it well.”

Chuckling at some inside joke with himself, Derek joins Stiles on the couch. After a moment, he leans down and rests his head over Stiles’ heart. 

Stiles rolls his eyes to himself and settles against the arm of the couch, turning the volume up. Like Derek can’t already hear his heart across the room. No, he’s always got to get front row seats to the show. 

One of Derek’s hands comes up to rub at the back of his neck. Then it stills and hangs back down towards the floor. 

A few minutes later, Derek shifts his entire body weight, flipping onto his other side and making Stiles huff out a breath when Derek elbows his gut. 

After that, Derek sighs like somebody’s trying to mess up his perfectly gelled hair, and tugs Stiles’ body down the couch so he’s lying horizontal. Derek then clambers back up Stiles’ torso to rest his head back over Stiles’ heart. 

“Okay,” Stiles snaps the fourth time Derek tries to rearrange them, “do you have restless legs... arms... body syndrome or something? The cuddling thing isn’t usually so difficult.”

“I just,” Derek rolls his neck, trying to crack it, “this is really uncomfortable. I don’t know why I used to do it.”

Stiles shrugs, still facing the TV and not watching a second of it. “Sometimes you do stuff that hurts because the hurt doesn’t, y’know, matter when the other person is happy?”

Derek makes a noise of understanding and sits up, getting into a more comfortable position on his side of the couch. 

Stiles had been bearing Derek’s 200 pound weight whenever Derek wanted to cuddle for the past month without complaint. 

XXXXX

Exiting the Denny’s, apron thrown over his shoulder, Stiles casts his gaze around the parking lot. 

Just his jeep. 

XXXXX

When Stiles lets himself into the loft, he finds it empty. He’s beaten Derek to his own house. Or rather, place of residence. 

And it’s a sty. Stiles is pretty sure the subway car was cleaner. This is what happens when you let a werewolf have a bachelor pad. 

So he dumps some dishes into the dishwasher, picks up a few random pieces of underwear off the floor, puts the Salvation Army “throw the stuff you want to donate into this giant bag” bag on the kitchen table so Derek will see it. 

Domesticity never seems as much fun as when your chances at it are getting slimmer and slimmer. 

XXXXX

Stiles will give them one thing: they still have a lot of sex. 

Stiles will give them one more: he still ends up waking at weird hours in the night. 

When Stiles opens his eyes to Derek’s bedroom, he’s greeted by the familiar shape of Derek’s silhouette, backlit by the bone white moonlight. He looks made of stone, from the sharp edge of his nose to the hard, bent curve of his shoulders. 

It makes an odd contrast to the plush curves of the teddy bear reclining on Derek’s dresser. 

Derek’s granite hands come up to rub at his temples, and the craggy lines of his eyebrows pull together. 

“You okay?” Stiles murmurs, half asleep. 

Leaning over to kiss Stiles, Derek replies, “just thinking,” then lies back down. 

Stiles would have happily gone his entire life without knowing what a halfhearted kiss from Derek felt like. 

Beside him, Derek falls asleep quickly, contorted into a position that involves curling up into a ball like a porcupine, fists clenched. It’s becoming a habit. Derek’s going to be waking up with nail marks in his palm. 

Stiles can’t fall asleep. He can’t mess around on his phone either, the light will wake Derek up. So he lies back. Watches the ceiling. It stares back at him. 

Fuck you, ceiling, Stiles doesn’t have time to deal with your uncommunicative shit. 

The ceiling stares back. 

Maybe Stiles doesn’t care what the ceiling is thinking. 

The ceiling stares back. 

Fine, maybe he does. Maybe he misses the days when they’d talk about their feelings, even if it made him feel like a preteen girls. Where had all of his sharing and caring time with the ceiling gone?

The ceiling stares back. 

But who is he to demand to know what the ceiling is thinking? What gives him the right? The ceiling never got a say in any of it. If had a choice to begin with, it probably wouldn’t want to be involved with Stiles in the first place.

XXXXX

“Derek hasn’t been over in a while.”

“Yeah. I dunno, Dad, he’s got some stuff going on.”

“...alright Stiles. Do you at least know if he and I are still on for baseball Wednesday night?”

“You’d have to ask him.”

XXXXX

The beach trip was Scott’s idea, but everybody else jumped onboard in no time. After weeks of having their noses buried in old books or the forest floor, it would be good to just bake in the summer sun on the beach like stereotypical young adults for once.

Melissa and the Sheriff even end up getting invited. Mostly because Stiles and Scott have decided to play matchmaker and the pack agreed to help. What are friends for if not for help with a game of parent trap?

A smattering of tourists are wincing as they brave the giant tub of ice water known as the Pacific, but as native Californians, most of the pack knows that the real fun of a beach trip comes from baking in a nest of warm sand. 

Stiles wriggles back and forth, creating a furrow beneath himself.

“And you make dog jokes about us,” Erica scoffs, “you’re like one of those dogs that has to walk in a circle three times before lying down.”

“I never said being a dog was a bad thing,” Stiles counters, “especially if it means all of this sandy comfortableness.”

Lydia primly hands Erica one of her folding chairs. “We prefer not to get sand in our bathing suits.”

To each their own. Stiles shakes his head back and forth to make a dip in the sand for his head. Perfect. 

It takes a half hour for the whole pack to unpack their supplies, and they look like a full campsite by the time they’re done. There’s a dining area under a pop up canopy, four different beach umbrellas, double that number of coolers, and enough beach blankets to drape the Taj Mahal. 

Stiles notes with satisfaction that they’ve managed to maneuver his dad and Melissa under the same umbrella. Now if only they could stop reading their respective magazines and talk to each other...

Isaac accidentally drops (throws) his drink across the glossy pages of _Us Weekly_ (so his dad has a thing for celebrity gossip, give him some slack, he leads a stressful life,) and _Time._

“I’ve never been more proud of that boy in my life,” Stiles confides fondly to Derek, who’s reclining nearby in a swimsuit that doesn’t show nearly as much skin as it should. 

“Mmmm,” Derek mumbles sleepily, “he can be manipulative.”

“It’s the puppy eyes,” Stiles agrees. 

Erica keeps getting sunburned, then healing. It’s disconcerting. Lydia looks like a model for nautically themed bikinis, Allison and Scott are busy playing beach volleyball like the cliches they are, and the other guys are trying to throw each other into the waves while conveniently ignoring how many of the tourists’ cameras are pointed at them instead of the ocean. It’s a good day. 

Derek seems to have decided early on that he would not join in the revelry and instead stay with Stiles, who’s working on his tan. He’s going to be a _bronze statue_ by the time he’s done, thank you.Around mid afternoon, Derek falls asleep, letting loose the occasional growling snore that flutters the edge of the beach blanket. 

He still looks like he’s fighting someone, tense and curled in. How long has it been since Stiles overheated because of Derek cleaving to his side like a limpet? Too long, Stiles decides. 

Carefully, Stiles lifts himself up onto his elbows, trying not to shower any sand onto Derek’s face. Sand is probably a pain to get out of stubble. He inches over the striped terrycloth until he can lower himself down onto his side, back lined up with Derek’s chest. It would probably be easier to be the big spoon, but to hell with that, Derek’s arms are the best blanket ever. Letting out another grumbling snore, Derek unconsciously brings an arm up to scratch his nose. Before he can drop the arm back onto the ground, Stiles redirects its path so that Derek’s arm is slung over his waist. Spooning achieved. 

It’s very almost not at all perfect. 

Stiles tries to just savor the feel of Derek’s weight draped over him again. 

Boyd and Erica leave first, packing a handful of coolers and umbrellas into Erica’s truck. Next go Allison, Isaac, and Scott, or “the three amigos” as Stiles likes to call them. Lydia and Jackson make their own stylish exits, (with Derek it’s dramatic entrances, with Lydia and Jackson, it’s stylish exits,) and to Stiles’ satisfaction, his dad takes Melissa home. 

The sun is starting to set, so Stiles prods Derek awake. 

“You had one hell of a nap. Has somebody not been getting enough sleep?”

Derek rasps a hand over his stubble, and winces as a few sand grains fall out. “Insomnia. Nothing new.”

Stiles purses his lips in sympathy. For an insomniac, Derek looks good. There’s no light more flattering than a California sunset on the beach, and Derek is as close to a golden god as any mortal can get. Derek blinks, and striped shadows cut across his cheeks as his lashes fall, then rise again. 

With a jolt, Stiles realizes that Derek’s been looking back into Stiles’ eyes with as much intensity as Stiles was looking into his. He feels like he’s been caught staring at something he shouldn’t.

“You,” Derek marvels, “are beautiful.”

“Um, thanks?” Derek doesn’t need to sound so perplexed by it. Stiles is the only one that’s allowed to be deprecating about his looks. 

“And smart.”

“That’s what they tell me.”

“And funny,” Derek observes, his brows knitting together. There’s a puzzle he’s trying to solve, but Stiles doesn’t have the first clue what it is. 

So he says, “aw shucks, you’re going to make me blush.”

“I love you,” Derek says. It sounds like he’s testing the words out on his tongue, trying to make them fit. As if all that practice he’d put in saying them was all for naught. “I love you,” he repeats.

“Could you stop sounding like you’re trying to convince yourself?” Stiles finally sighs. 

Derek doesn’t have anything to say to that. He just grips Stiles’ face and holds it to his throat, tucks his chin on top of Stiles’ head, and holds on until the sun sets.

XXXXX

Stiles walks in on Derek, the teddy bear, and the Salvation Army “throw the stuff you want to donate into this giant bag” bag. He feels ever so slightly like a husband walking in on a cheating... husband. Or maybe teddy bear. The point is, Derek looks like he’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. That’s a much better metaphor, why didn’t Stiles go with that?

He waves a hand at the bag, the bear, and the boy. “Salvation Army looking for old toys?”

Derek coughs, then says, “yeah.”

Stiles waits. It takes some doing, but he keeps his mouth shut and he waits. 

“I- neither of us really like it,” Derek explains, still loosely hanging onto the teddy bear. It dangles by one paw, bright button eyes downcast and forlorn. 

“You were, uh, pretty enthusiastic about it for a while.” Stiles moves closer to sit on the kitchen table. He swings his feet back and forth, and watches his shoelaces flutter. 

Derek runs a broad thumb over the face of the teddy bear. “It made so much sense at the time, but- it’s just- it’s just a teddy bear. I don’t understand why I thought it would be a good idea. More and more, I don’t understand why it was a good idea.”

“The teddy bear?”

Derek pauses. He’s like a high bandwidth video running on dial-up, these days. So many moments he spends in his head. 

“Yes,” he answers. “The teddy bear.”

There’s something churning in Stiles’ gut, but it’s been churning for a while, so it doesn’t bother him any more than it already is. 

He remembers sitting in Algebra, and being shown the asymptote of a graph. A curving line that gets closer and closer to the axis, but never, ever touches it. Never crosses over into the netherworld of negative numbers, just strays closer and closer to the edge, lets the tension grow. Stiles always thought it would just be better if the damn curve could cross the axis already, it was just putting off the inevitable. It would be better to exist in the horrors on the other side of the axis if it meant breaking the tension. 

Stiles crosses the axis. 

“Donate the teddy bear,” he says dully. “Also, we aren’t talking about the teddy bear.”

“Stiles I-” Derek looks at him with apologetic eyes. 

“I know,’ Stiles nods, hopping off of the table, “it’s okay. We were sort of doomed from the start.”

“I really did love you,” Derek offers helplessly. A last minute consolation prize. “There just isn’t that... fire anymore.”

Ah yes. The legendary, all consuming fire of love that Derek had for him once. Well, maybe the fact that Stiles never felt that will make it easier to walk out of the door. 

It doesn’t.


	8. A Box of Old Crap

“That’s it,” Scott announces exasperatedly, “get up.”

Stiles peeks his head out from under the covers. “Who let you in here?”

Scott shrugs. “Some officer of the law that looks suspiciously related to you. Seemed kind of familiar.”

Stiles rolls his eyes and turns his face to the pillow. “What do you waaaant?”

Jumping onto Stiles’ bed, Scott sits on Stiles’ back and explains that “you’re going to win Derek back.”

Stiles pulls the covers back over his head. 

“Trust me,” Scott says earnestly, “I’m like, the king of winning people back. I’ve won Allison back like four times.”

Stiles jerks, trying to throw Scott off of his back. 

“Seriously!” Scott protests, “I dunno what he thinks he’s doing, but you two are going to get back together. I don’t care how complicated it is, you two are meant to be!”

“You’re confusing me with someone else,” Stiles grumbles.

“Who?”

“You!”

“Stiiiles,” Scott sighs in a put-upon way, like Stiles dragged Scott into his bedroom and made him sit on him. “You two have a chance! I don’t know what you’ve been telling yourself, but the way Derek looked at you... it was like he had little hearts dancing around his head.”

“That would be the love spell. Which is now gone, so he’s realized that I’m not the person for him. He’s moved on, I’ve moved on.”

“The hell you’ve moved on, Stiles.”

Oh, he just knows that Scott has his serious face on. 

“I’ve mov-”

“You haven’t left the house in a week!”

“I have a big essay to email in tomorrow!”

“Which you’re working on telepathically from your bed?” 

Well Scott’s got him there. Good for him. 

“Stiles, you’ve got to get back on that horse.”

Stiles flips over, finally dislodging Scott, and sits up. “Okay, first of all? I think you mean get back on that wolf, not horse. And B: no.”

“You can’t just give up on love, Stiles!”

“Okay,” Stiles holds up a finger, cutting Scott off. “Let’s get something straight. It wasn’t love. Not for him, anyway. He had a spell put on him. A spell that was made to make him love me.” Stiles over enunciates so Scott cant possibly understand him. “That spell was taken off. Derek tried, but he really can’t love me when it’s just me and him. It’s that simple, Scott.”

“But-”

“No! Before the spell, he tolerated me. Now, we’re back to square one, and that’s the square we were always meant to stay at. You can’t honestly tell me that I can just win over Derek Hale with just my,” Stiles laughs harshly, “stunning looks and personality.”

“That’s ridiculous, you could totally-”

“No I couldn’t.”

Scott slaps a palm over Stiles’ mouth. “Listen, I don’t think I’m good enough for Allison, but I still try. If I never tried, we wouldn’t be where we are today.”

When Scott takes off his hand, Stiles spits back, “what, pretending that everything’s fine even though you’ve already broken up four times and it’s never going to be the same as it was back in high school?”

Exhaling sharply, Scott falls back onto his ass, making Stiles’ bed shudder slightly.    
Dammit. Stiles went too far. 

“You’re my best friend Stiles,” Scott says lowly.

“I know.”

“I just want you to be happy.”

“I know. Can we just... let’s cheer me up some other way, okay?”

Scott lunges for one of the video game controllers Stiles has lying on his floor. “CoD?”

“Sounds good.”

XXXXX

It’s just a box. A large brown cardboard box. The type that lies around in the back of closets with about four different labels written in sharpie across the side. 

This particular box says “decorations,” which was then crossed out in favor of “books,” then “T-shirts,” until finally, there’s just “Stiles’ Stuff” emblazoned across the top left flap. 

If Derek really wanted to fulfill all of the breakup stereotypes, he should have dropped it off in person so they could have an awkward, passive-aggressive conversation. Not just left it on Stiles’ front doorstep. 

Maybe because Stiles wants to torture himself, maybe because he really does want to fulfill all of the stereotypes, or maybe because he actually hasn’t seen Derek’s face in a week and a half, he goes up to his room to get a cardboard box. 

In the box goes the second teddy bear, with the stupid ascot. 

In the box goes Derek’s orange underwear, the one that Stiles had kept “for proof that you can wear primary colors.”

In the box goes the spare toothbrush for Derek, the one with the purple rubber grip that’s slightly deformed, because Derek brushes his teeth with way too much vigor. 

Derek’s spare leather jacket. The one he gave to Stiles on their very first date. Stiles should have known that Derek would never willingly give up one of his beloved leather jackets. 

His spare cell phone charger. 

Stiles is about to unleash the Labeling Sharpie of Doom when he sees a wrinkled pink curl half shoved underneath his bed. It’s one of the rose petals. One lucky enough to have escaped the vacuum cleaner scourge so that it could live out the rest of its days in a peaceful retirement under Stiles’ bed. 

He dumps the petal in the box as well. It’s so small and shriveled he can barely see it amongst all of the other crap, but Derek will be able to smell it. So there. 

It’s not as satisfying as he’d hoped it would be.

XXXXX

Pack meetings are awkward. 

Stiles has to go, since the fairies are still a problem, even if he wants nothing to do with them any more. 

He and Derek have an unspoken agreement. They sit on opposite sides of Derek’s living room, pretend they haven’t had sex on a single surface of it, and if they will only address each other directly if they’re talking about something strategical concerning the fairies. 

It’s great. 

It’s especially great in the brief moments that Stiles forgets that he and Derek broke up. When he reaches for his key to Derek’s loft before remembering that he doesn’t have one anymore. He gave it back with the obligatory awkward returning of each other’s belongings. (If Derek ever noticed that Stiles didn’t give back his gray striped shirt, he didn’t say anything. It was in Stiles’ room long enough that he can probably consider it legally his.) It’s also awesome when Derek’s shoulders fall at something, and Stiles’ first instinct is to give him a hug, a kiss on the cheek, like it wouldn’t mean shattering their facade of delicate politeness. 

The worst part is that Stiles can’t even call up a gal pal, binge on ice cream and romantic comedies, and talk about what a jerk his ex-boyfriend was. Derek’s the only one that has the right to do that. 

When Stiles feels especially like giving himself a hard time, he imagines Derek doing just that. He pictures Derek and probably Erica, sitting on Derek’s leather couch in pajamas, slippered feet up on the coffee table. Derek, with a bucket of vanilla cradled in his lap. As Matthew Mcconaughey does something shirtless onscreen, Derek would moan to Erica, _he never even stopped to wonder why I was acting so out of character. Like, OMG. Could he be more oblivious?_

_And, like, I wasn’t in my right mind for most of the relationship. So, basically, he did a lot of stuff without my consent, you know what I mean, girlfriiiieeend?_

_Ugh, and he’s just this total dork! You get me? You get me. Like, maybe if he was less spazzy, I might’ve stuck around, but there’s only so much time I want to spend listening to him talk about that World of Whatever he’s always playing._

Around the time that Imaginary Derek starts spewing profanity uncontrollably, Stiles cranks up his ipod and tries to drown it all out. He’s going to be deaf before he reaches 25. 

XXXXX

Scott and Isaac have taken to barging into his house. They call it “dropping by,” and Stiles calls it “socialization attacks.”

“Ugh,” Isaac collapses onto the couch, then winces and pulls the remote out from under him. “Moody roommate? Not fun.”

“Oh,” Stiles notes casually. Yes, casually. He’s just politely interested. “Is something bothering Derek?”

Isaac gives him a look like he should know better. “Yes,” he replies acidly, “something is bothering Derek.”

Out of his peripheral vision, Stiles can see Scott shaking his head at Isaac, making very unsubtle motions across his neck. His best friend, everybody. Gotta love him. 

“Hmm,” Stiles replies casually. _Casually._ “That’s unfortunate.”

Isaac rolls his eyes. “If you want to know, just ask.” Damn him and his practically psychic emotional radar. 

Stiles scoffs and returns his attention to whatever’s on TV. 

_Pregnant Pageant_. When did that become a show?

He gives up. “Why is Derek upset?”

“You!” Isaac shoots back immediately. He had an answer pre-prepared. That means he’s been stewing. 

Scott is practically using semaphore to communicate to Isaac what a very bad idea this conversation is. Well, too late. Stiles has gone from daily communication with Derek to pretending that they’re casual acquaintances. He takes what news he can get. 

“He’s freaking out,” Isaac explains, “because the last time he thought he loved someone and it wasn’t really love, his family got burned to death.”

Silence falls. It always does when somebody plays the dead family card. What do you say after that?

“I-I’m not Kate,” Stiles stutters out, because he can’t be, no, he didn’t know what he was doing-

“I know that,” Isaac sighs, slumping down into the couch. “I’m pretty sure Derek knows that too. That’s not stopping him from pacing around the loft in the middle of the night. Loudly.”

“Is he doing that thing where he stress eats pistachios?”

“I keep finding the shells on the kitchen floor.”

Stiles chuckles. For a guy with super senses, Derek never notices when he leaves food lying around. 

“Can you at least tell him I hope he’ll be okay?”

“Tell him yourself,” Isaac retorts.

“How about we go get something to eat?” Scott squeaks.

XXXXX

“What do you think you’re doing?!” his dad roars. 

Stiles flinches. Damn that was loud. 

“Come on! Come _on_!”

You’d think he could calm down a little bit. 

“That ball was yours! You missed it by two inches!” his dad yells at the screen. “Stiles, did you see that?”

“Uh, yeah dad. Crazy. I mean, what does this” Stiles squints to read the guy’s name, “Williams guy think he’s doing?”

The sheriff sighs. “Thanks for trying.”

“Hey, I could be paying attention!”

“You _could_ be, but you’re not. Say, when do you think Derek might be able to come around to watch a game with me?”

Stiles takes too long to answer, because the game hits a commercial break and his dad can direct his full attention onto him. 

“I guess he doesn’t have to watch a game with me,” the sheriff acquiesces, “a young man his age probably doesn’t want to spend his free time with his boyfriend’s father.”

“No, dad, I’m sure Derek would-”

“It’s fine, Stiles, don’t make him do something he doesn’t want to.”

“Dad,” Stiles sighs, because he might as well break the news. Better late than never. “Derek wouldn’t have a problem hanging out with you. _Me,_ on the other hand... It’s probably best that our paths don’t cross, you know what I’m saying?”

The sheriff’s face falls. It’s like kicking a puppy. 

XXXXX

Fen has a habit of appearing at inopportune times. Stiles is just leaving the bathroom, towel wrapped around his waist, hair still dripping, when Fen appears. Quite literally, he appears. With any other magical creature, teleportation comes with a bit of a flourish. A pop, a bang, a slow materialization. Fen just shows up. Flourishes are too inefficient, apparently.

“Ah!” Stiles grips his towel tighter. “Fen! Hey. You. Here. In my hallway.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“You must gather a meeting of your wolves.”

“Why aren’t you bothering D- the Alpha about this?”

Fen gives him a “you should know better” look that could rival Isaac’s. Stiles honestly has no idea what he means by it.

Running a hand across the back of his neck to collect a few stray water droplets, Stiles goes to his room to get dressed and call in the pack. They really need to have some sort of emergency phone. Bright red, with a rotary dial, like the best emergency phones have.

It takes a while for the pack to show up, since it’s sort of four in the morning. (Stiles has weird hours, don’t judge him.) They trudge in one by one, sleep addled, only Lydia and Jackson bothering to get out of their pajamas. 

Stiles does a quick count. He feels a bit like a school teacher on an elementary school field trip. “Okay, so we’re just missing-”

A perfunctory knock on the front door.

“Derek,” Stiles finishes in a sigh.

Derek is wearing his pinstriped pajama bottoms and Stiles wants to cry. At least Derek threw a shirt on, which he normally doesn’t wear to sleep. 

Wordlessly, Stiles steps out of the doorway and gestures for Derek to walk into the living room. Derek nods politely and seats himself next to Isaac.

By the time they’re all settled in the living room, and Stiles’ dad has tumbled down the stairs to see what the fuss is about, rolled his eyes, then gone back to his bedroom, everybody is impatient to know exactly why they’ve been dragged out of bed, for god’s sake. 

Fen primly settles his hands on his knees, and announces, “the fairies” _sneer_ “have gone to Tijuana.”

“How do we know this?” Derek asks. 

“More importantly, does this mean we get to go to Tijuana?” Erica’s face is eager and predatory. 

“I have a handful of contacts in the fairy court.” Fen explains, “I am not the only dissenter to fairy rule. They tell me that the fairies are going on a” _sigh_ “road trip. To Mexico. And there has been evidence of fairy mischief in the Tijuana area.”

“Tijuana?” Scott asks incredulously. “Are they on spring break or something?”

“My understanding is that there is a fair amount of debauchery and revelry in Tijuana,” Fen retorts coolly, “the fairies would enjoy themselves in a place such as that. Most telling are the reports of members of the Tijuana populace acting in a manner that suggests enchantment.”

“What, like they’re being kidnapped like me’n Stiles were?”

“How do we know they aren’t just reporting hallucinations?” Isaac asks. “Aren’t there a lot of drugs in Tijuana?”

Fen raises a hand and waits for the questions to stop. “The reports are not of odd visions or experience, but of irrational behavior.”

“How is that not just drugs?” Erica cuts in.

“She makes a good point,” adds Boyd.

“And how do we know that your contacts are reliable?”

“What about fairy dust? Do we have confirmation of fairy dust? Because without that-”

“Does this mean I need to renew my passport?”

“Here.” Lydia almost has to shout over the rising cacophony. She shifts Stiles’ laptop -when did she get that?- around so they can all see the youtube page she’s pulled up. 

OMG CRAZY COUPLE BUSTS UP MALL! reads the video title. The caption elaborates to say that “these two wackjobs def made my tijuana vacation more ineresting. smh.”

It’s shaky cellphone footage, but it’s obvious what’s going on. The man, an overweight guy who looks so much like a tourist that Stiles is surprised he isn’t wearing a tacky hawaiian T-shirt, is pleading with somebody’s grandma, a frizzy haired lady who clearly wants to be anywhere but there. 

“-come back to Georgia with me!” he yells. Then there’s something else covered up by the laughter of the spectators, and tourist guy falls to his knees, arms outstretched, paunch almost touching the floor. “You don’ understand, it’s been magical!” the spectators that understand English chuckle again, but Stiles knows that tourist guy is speaking exactly the truth, even if he doesn’t know it. 

The grandma yells something at him in Spanish, and tries to back away, wide-eyed and disturbed. 

“Please!” tourist guy screams, collapsing onto the grimy tile of the Tijuanan mall, “I’d die without you!” 

He’s crawling across the ground towards her, and people are laughing still, but it twists something in Stiles’ gut. Was that what Derek had looked like to an outsider? Panting after him, losing all dignity and sense? 

A pack of guys step in front of the grandma and start yelling at the guy in Spanglish, trying to get him to back off. 

Tourist guy punches one of the grandma’s protectors in the face. It’s obvious he hasn’t punched anybody in at least twenty years, and his arm fat goes flopping, but that doesn’t stop them from getting into a brawl right there on the floor of the mall. The crowd around them all backs up, hanging onto their oversized sunglasses and shopping bags, and the grandma makes her exit. The cell phone swings around to follow her hobbling steps past the fountain and the store selling broad-brimmed hats for tourists, but then someone behind the camera chuckles “oh shit, lover boy ain’t giving up,” and looks back to catch tourist guy pulling his bruised self up and out of his pack of attackers. 

His sunglasses are busted up, and half hanging off of his face. 

“Wait, dude, what’s wrong with his eyes?”

The cell phone clacks as the erstwhile cinematographer tries to zoom in. They see a flash of turquoise before the tourist guy moves out of shot, limping after the grandmother again.

Lydia pauses the video. “There are seven more minutes of this, but you get the gist. It looks like there are similar clips of other incidents, if the ‘related videos’ section is anything to go by. Also,” she taps at the keyboard, “there are some groups trying to convince people that there’s something in the water supply ‘tampering with rational thought in Tijuana residents,’ and the mayor is enforcing police activity in areas most affected by the ‘outbreak of wild activity.’”

“I just said that,” Fen points out sullenly. 

Lydia looks at him with steely eyes. “You need evidence to back up every hypothesis. Anybody could tell you that.”

“So!” Boyd booms, cutting off the bicker-fest that doubtless would have ensued, “are we going on a road trip?”

Derek inhales sharply through his nose and rubs his palms together as he thinks for a moment. “Yes. Pack bags as soon as possible.”


	9. A Ride

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> iiiiitsy bitsy possible trigger, if you wanna check the bottom warnings.

Hopefully this will be funny at some point. “This one time, my friends and I were on a road trip to Mexico, and I ended up on the side of the I-5 somewhere in Kern county with no ride. Crazy, right?”

But right now, Stiles is busy fuming and trying to erase the evidence -the puffy eyes, the red face, the stuffed nose, the shaky breaths- before Erica’s minivan shows up to get him.

XXXXX

 _Six hours earlier:_  
“-negative eight bottles of beer on the wall, negative eight bottles of beer,” they sing, “you take one down, pass it around, negative nine bottles of beer on the wall! Negative nine bottle of beer on the wall, negative nine bottles of-”

“Shut uuuup,” Boyd moans. “I liked Derek’s car better, it was quiet in there.”

“But Derek’s car wasn’t your girlfriend’s car,” Erica points out threateningly, “which you prefer even if it is a minivan that smells like french fries.”

“That’s right,” Boyd agrees quickly. “But Isaac will be able to nap on the way there,” he adds longingly, looking out the window to see the camaro zipping along further down the highway. “It’s peaceful.”

“Who needs peaceful?” Stiles proclaims, “let’s start again from the top! One hundred bottles of beer on the wall-”

An entire chorus of grumpy werewolves yell at him to be quiet. Whatever. Road trip songs are infinitely better than just staring out the window. Everybody knows that. Especially everybody who’s gone on a road trip through California. The sweeping, pine covered mountains of up north around Beacon Hills are fun, but right now, they’re going through the central valley, which is another way of saying that they have hundreds of miles of freakishly identical farmland to go. 

It is kind of mesmerizing, Stiles allows as he watches ruler straight lines of apple trees zip past. He isn’t sure what sort of machine they use to make them, but whatever it is, it’s impressive. 

The crops part for a small town, a speckling of buildings amidst massive squares of farmland, and they’re about to pass through it entirely when Lydia declares, “rest stop!”

So they stop. Better that than deny a command coming from on high from Lydia, especially when she’s already been in constant state of tenseness since Allison left for school. 

Once Lydia finds a bathroom sufficiently clean for her needs, (a complex process that involves going through every publicly accessible building in the town,) the rest of the pack pile out into the parking lot to stretch their legs. 

Stiles is in the middle of trying to stand on one foot, stretching his quads, while also not falling over, when the camaro pulls into the parking lot. 

“Hey, he got my text,” Erica notes with surprised delight. 

Isaac comes out of the car first, yawning, then jumping onto an unsuspecting Scott’s back, and Derek follows. He’s wearing his sunglasses and a white T-shirt, and he looks like a greaser. Not the silly ones from Grease or Happy Days, but kind of like Johnny Cash. Like all he needs is a car, some leather, and a road on which to run away from the law. 

Stiles rubs the back of his neck and twists to look at the quaint little diner Lydia disappeared into. The others are talking behind him, but he’s pretending to be interested in the detailing on the delicate little picket fence surrounding the diner. 

“And the traffic going through Sacramento,” Erica groans. 

Derek makes a noise of assent. “I don’t see what’s so attractive about Sacramento anyway.”

“Exactly,” Jackson jumps in, “everybody knows that if you actually want an attractive city, you have to put it on a coastline. I tell you, not a decent tailor in that whole town.”

“Oh yeah,” Scott scoffs, “like there’s tailoring in Beacon Hills.”

“McCall, I will have you know- Lydia!” Jackson’s head whips around as the strawberry blonde princess herself descends the steps of the diner, waving behind her at a pleasant looking old woman in the doorway. 

“Thank you for the muffins, Delia!”

“No problem, sweetie! Good luck on tracking down that boyfriend of yours!”

When the diner door closes, Jackson holds out his arms in a “what was that” gesture.

Lydia shrugs. “Delia is a sucker for a good, romantic, sob story, and they had low fat apple cinnamon muffins. Do you know how hard these are to find?”

“You are an evil genius, Lydia,” Stiles marvels. 

“An evil genius with some excellent free muffins,” Lydia preens. “Now lets keep going. We’re supposed to be almost there by tonight.”

Everybody disperses towards a car, but when Stiles reaches Erica’s minivan, he realizes that everybody dispersed into Erica’s car. Meaning that there are no free seats, so he’ll have to get into the other car. Specifically, Derek’s car. Specifically, not a place he needs to be.

“Guys,” he hisses, although there’s no way Derek doesn’t hear him, “I have to switch seats with somebody.”

“What are you talking about?” Scott asks at normal volume, “you could just take- oh.”

“I’ll switch with you,” Boyd says eagerly, shrugging apologetically to Erica as he hops out of shotgun and pads over to the camaro, already putting his earbuds into place.

Close call. 

XXXXX

There are a lot more close calls. When Scott announces that now he has to go to the bathroom, and they have to pull over again, griping at him for not just going when Lydia did. When Jackson announces that he needs “to smell something other than french fries and all of your stink, for god’s sake, pull over Erica.” When Isaac announces that they just _have_ to loop through Solvang, because “there are like five windmills on the main street. The old fashioned kind. It’s so cool!” It isn’t cool, and Stiles has to forcibly take Scott’s seat to keep his spot in the minivan.

It’s 6PM, and the sun is dangling precariously over the horizon when they stop for drinks at a gas station, and Lydia puts her foot down. “No more hanging around, we’re an hour behind schedule! Come on, move it!”

They move it. And since “they” are werewolves, they manage to leap into Erica’s car, the “fun car,” long before Stiles does. They didn’t really need to slam the door in his face, but one way or another, now there’s just him, the gas station, and Derek’s camaro. With Derek in it and nobody else. 

Steeling himself, Stiles climbs into the passenger seat, thoughtlessly sinking into the familiar leather with a sigh. There had been a few memorable make out sessions in this seat. The stories it could tell, or maybe prefer to repress forever. 

Derek nods at him, giving a “this is technically a smile but more like a sideways stretch of my mouth signifying that I acknowledge your existence and don’t wish you searing physical pain” smile before turning on the radio and pulling back onto the highway. 

Taylor Swift declares that they’ll never ever get back together. 

Derek switches stations. 

One Republic informs them that it’s too late to apologize. 

Stiles fiddles with the station knob. 

When Kelly Clarkson starts wearily explaining that we started out friends, it was cool but it was all pretend, they both lunge for the radio’s power button at the same time. 

In the silence that follows, Stiles coughs, twiddles his foot, glances out the window, finds nothing interesting out there, then turns his attention back to the interior of the car. 

“So this is awkward,” he points out, hoping that acknowledging it will make it less so. 

It doesn’t, because then Derek makes a scoffing noise and nods in hearty agreement. 

“Way to agree,” Stiles replies sullenly.

“What? It is. You’re right. Congratulations.”

“You make it sound like awkward was my goal.”

Derek raises a hand helplessly and slaps it back onto the wheel. Stiles slumps further into his seat and closes his eyes. He would kill Lydia if doing that wouldn’t kill him right back. He half suspects that she did this on purpose, although what outcome she expects, he has no idea. 

“Why did you have to point out that it was awkward?” Derek asks out of the blue. 

“I had to say something, you know how I hate-”

“-prolonged silence. Yeah, I remember.”

Stiles scratches behind his ear and refuses to look at Derek. “So I had to say something. I know that’s a foreign concept to you, since your go-to strategy is dead silence and avoidance, but yeah.”

“ _Avoidance_?” Derek asks incredulously. He’s trying to be casual, but Stiles can see his hands tightening on the wheel.

“Yeah, avoidance,” Stiles shoots back, “unless you’re claiming that our weeks of radio silence was because your cell phone was broken. Also your vocal cords, and ability to send a text or email or even write a fucking letter.”

Derek lets out a frustrated exhale. “Sorry for thinking you’d appreciate some distance.”

“Oh, don’t even pretend-”

“Pretend what? What are you accusing me of, Stiles? What?”

“Just-”

“No, what? How was any of this part of my evil plan, to, what, break your poor little heart?” Derek asks, stone-faced, staring straight ahead, watching the green signs glowing faintly with the reflections from the headlights. 

There are some problems with the English language. For one thing, there is no plural for “you,” which is why you get weird almost-words like “y’all.” For another, a person can say “fuck you,” all they want, but when you come right down to it, it’s impossible to convey the stomach-burning, fist shaking hatred that Stiles feels for Derek in that moment with a few words. 

Stiles settles for hissing out a “fuck you” anyway, adding in some jerky arm flails, and feeling entirely unsatisfied. 

They pass another green sign, which dully reflects “Rest stop 5 miles” back at them.

“Serendipity,” Stiles whispers.

“What.” Derek grits out. 

“Take the exit in five miles.”

“Why.”

“Because if we’re going to have a screaming match, we shouldn’t do it at 70 miles per hour, dumbass,” Stiles replies, already tensing himself up in preparation. 

“Since when are we having a screaming match?” Derek splutters. 

“Right now,” Stiles says, steely-eyed, “I have some shit to scream. Now merge. right.”

Derek glances at him, then merges right, and Stiles wonders what his own face looks like at that moment. If he should bottle it up for occasions when he needs to be persuasive. Then he realizes that his hands are still shaking and maybe this isn’t something he wants to repeat. Ever. 

The rest stop doesn’t look very restful. It’s a field of grass, a set of bathrooms, and a massive billboard listing missing people. 

They park. 

They sit in silence. 

“So?” Derek asks. 

Stiles doesn’t know where to start. He feels like a tangled ball of yarn: there’s a start to it somewhere, but he can’t find it without tugging at random loops until he finds something promising. 

He begins simply. Facts. “You’ve been ignoring me.”

“Avoiding. You said avoiding.”

“Fine. You’ve been avoiding me.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s an asshole thing to do.”

“I’m an asshole,” Derek replies unashamedly. “I know you’re used to floating hearts above his head Derek, but I’m an asshole.” He adds in an afterthought under his breath: “Not that you noticed a difference.”

“Of course I noticed a difference,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes, “sue me for thinking that maybe you’d turned over a new leaf!”

In a sudden motion, Derek is sitting sideways in his seat, looking Stiles dead in the face with laser eyes, reflective sunglasses gone. “You wanted to believe I’d ‘turned over a new leaf’ so bad,” he rushes out, fast and perfectly articulated, like a speech he’d practiced over and over in his head, “that you ignored anything that suggested I wasn’t okay. I was going crazy, I was obsessed with you, I agreed with _everything you suggested_ , I was buying you heart shaped everything and texting you at all hours and you ignored the weirdness because it was convenient to. Stop pretending you were being generous when you were just in denial.”

“ _I_ was in denial?” Stiles explodes, “what about you, Mr. Everything Will Stay The Same When They Take Off The Spell? You didn’t have to string me along for weeks. I was ready to let you go, I had accepted that-”

“You think I was in denial?” Derek asks incredulously. “I was in anything but! I thought- you were- it was like-”

Derek isn’t one for words. Normally Stiles doesn’t mind this, since he talks enough for the both of them, and if you know how to look closely, you can tell what Derek is trying to convey, but right now, Stiles would prefer for Derek to be a man of words rather than action. Because Derek is acting. Is he ever. Acting by pushing his lips and teeth against Stiles own, grabbing the back of Stiles’ head and holding him closely like he used to, with wide, warm hands against Stiles’ skull. 

Stiles could choose to close his eyes. Fall into the memory of this, grip Derek’s shoulders, lean in in return. Play pretend for another moment or two. 

He grips Derek’s shoulders. He pushes Derek away. 

At least Derek lets himself be moved. Stiles will give him credit for that, even if he doesn’t want to be within a mile of him at that moment. 

“Fuck you,” Stiles breathes out, and the words aren’t enough, they aren’t enough. “Are you playing with me? Is this just some game to you?”

“No it isn’t a game,” Derek retorts icily, “what I’m saying.” A closing of the eyes, a tightening of his jaw, and he continues, “Is that when I used to do that,” he points at Stiles’ lips, “even after Fen took the spell off, I was high on life for hours afterwards. Then, eventually, I wasn’t. That’s not denial. That’s me...” Derek casts around for a word, “losing interest.”

The thing is, Stiles knows that’s what happened. He’s repeated it to himself over and over again, on lonely nights in his bed, when he walks into the coffee shop that used to be _theirs_ , when he sits across the room from Derek when he used to sit on top of him. But when Stiles was saying it to himself, there was always a chance that he could be wrong. That it was all a big misunderstanding. Now, there’s no misunderstanding. There is Derek, setting out the facts. 

Stiles gets out of the car. It isn’t a warm night, but he throws his head back, sucks in the cool air that smells like pollen and pesticides, catches a glimpse of a few speckles of stars. Like this, he can pretend he’s alone. 

The car door slams, and Derek’ voice says exasperatedly, “get back in the car Stiles, we need to get back on the road.”

When Stiles speaks, his voice crackles like an old radio, and he realizes belatedly that his cheeks are wet. “I... I know that what you felt... I know it wasn’t real. But,” Stiles gulps convulsively, “what... I felt. Was. Real, that is. So just... handle with fucking care, alright?

Out of the corner of his eye, Stiles sees Derek lean against the roof of the camaro, head bowed. “This is rough for me too, alright?” he grunts out finally. “I was happy, and then it all just sort of slipped away.”

Oh poor Derek and his life of angst and martyrdom. That must have been so difficult for him, to “lose interest.”

Stiles starts walking away, long strides with knocking knees, and there’s really nowhere to go but the highway, but he keeps walking anyway.

“Stiles!”

Don’t look back.

“Stiles, get back here!”

Don’t look back. 

“Stiles, I really don’t need this right now!”

Stiles looks back, bursting out, “I’m sick and tired of your self-pity gig, okay?”

Derek blinks, nonplussed. 

“Stop acting like it was the forces of the universe working against you! You wanted a way out, and you took it, and don’t act like you’re the goddamn victim here, because you’re not. You know, you could have just said that you didn’t like me, and spared us both a lot of angst. But no, instead you had to mope around on your own and curse your horrendous life while stringing me along, thinking maybe everything would just work out. Jeeee-sus,” Stiles groans, pushing his palms into his temples, “you know, I preferred love spell you better. Real you? Is an asshole.”

It’s a word that Derek’s called himself before. But it’s one thing to think something about yourself, even to say it, and another to have somebody else point it out. Derek stumbles back, like Stiles had thrown sticks and stones instead of words. He blinks rapidly, and to Stiles’ astonishment, Derek’s eyes are shining, and not from any werewolf power or fairy spell. Just water. 

“I’ll call Erica to come get you,” he says very softly, as he stares Stiles down accusingly before walking back to the car and closing himself inside it. The sound of the door slamming sounds like thunder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a non-con kiss.
> 
> Also, don't worry folks, it gets better from here on out.


	10. A Hard Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been a while, I got distracted writing fluff. 13000 words of it. So if anybody feels like a pick me up after all of this angst, go check out "A Simple Life" on my profile. Anywhoozle, Now that spring break and the play are over, updates should be coming faster. 
> 
> Also, lordy lordy lordy have you commenters had some things to say about (and sides to take on) the last chapter. In my opinion, yes, Stiles is being an ass, but so is Derek, and they are both equally idiotic, but about different things. Yay emotional miscommunication!

It’s a quiet ride as they make it down the last stretches of highway to the hotel. Boyd and Erica are asleep in the back, and Lydia’s driving, breaking the speed limit by a healthy 20mph to meet her original time goal. Jackson is zoning out to his ipod, and Scott is texting Isaac, who’s in Derek’s car. He keeps sending Stiles concerned looks over his phone, so Stiles rests his face against the cool glass of the window and pretends to sleep, even though Scott can tell by his heartbeat that he’s awake. 

Stiles just knows that they’re all brimming with questions, but they’re just going to have to wait. Or maybe just never get their questions answered, because quite frankly, Stiles is fed up with all of them and their matchmaking attempts. He isn’t an Austonian heroine, he doesn’t desperately need a man. 

They finally reach the hotel, and Lydia gets them checked in in record time with a few well-placed simpers, (then, when the clerk turns out to be gay, a few well-placed glares.) Derek’s car arrives just when Stiles is distributing the stack of key cards, and Stiles tosses Derek’s key card at his head. It just sort of... happens, and Stiles can’t bring himself to feel bad about it. Derek catches it, of course, giving Stiles a look before following the signs towards the “200-260” hallway. 

If Stiles didn’t know it before, he knows it now: this is going to be a long road trip. 

XXXXX

They wolf down their breakfasts at the hotel.

Stiles doesn’t care what anybody else says, he loves continental breakfasts. Something about the waffle station with the little waffle iron that hisses just so when you bring the lid down. That, and unlimited breakfast pastries. Definitely yes to unlimited breakfast pastries. 

Nobody else seems to share his opinion. The rest of the pack grimaces and works their way through enough coffee to energize a small island nation, trying to get through their meal as quickly as possible. 

“I don’t care what any of you say, I like continental breakfasts,” Stiles announces. They need some conversation at this breakfast table. “Just look at the cheerful shine of the jam packets.”

At the other end of the table, Derek snorts. “Our little connoisseur.”

“Says the guy who is eating literally nothing other than bacon and sausage,” Stiles shoots back.

“It’s _protein_ , for god’s sake, we’ve talked about this-”

“Shut uuupppp,” Erica growls. “It is too early in the morning for this.”

XXXXX

Lunch takes place on a picnic table at a park near the grocery store where they picked up their sandwiches. 

Stiles doesn’t care what anybody else says, he hates grocery store sandwiches. The way they come all pre-wrapped, like they’ve been cryogenically frozen for who knows how long, and the way he has no control whatsoever about how much condiment gets on his bread. It’s gross, and he doesn’t care how inefficient it is, he would have much preferred that they bought all the raw sandwich materials at the grocery store, then put them together on their own. 

Nobody else seems to share his opinion. Probably something to do with whatever addictive chemicals the grocery store puts in their lunch meats. 

Derek saunters in halfway through the meal, jamba juice in hand. 

“Well look who deigned to join us,” Stiles drawls.

Snorting in exasperation, Derek points out, “you hate those grocery store sandwiches as much as I do. I just decided to do something about it.”

“ _I_ thought that I would be a team player and eat the same thing as everybody else,” Stiles snaps. “I’m being cooperative!” he almost shouts in annoyance.

“Not at the table, please,” Isaac says, sugar-sweet. 

XXXXX

Dinner is some mexican restaurant in San Diego’s Oldtown, and Stiles doesn’t understand why they couldn’t get their mexican food in Mexico, where they’ll be in an hour, but apparently his retinue of werewolves wants their food, and they want it now.

Stiles doesn’t care what anybody else says, it’s not time for dinner. 

To his irritation, Derek agrees with him, and they both only order a drink. 

“I hate your face,” Stiles informs him.

“Your voice is annoying,” Derek retorts.

“Gentlemen,” the waitress sighs, “we’re going to have to kick you out if you keep saying these things next to all those kids at the next table over.”

Okay, so maybe they’re being a little passive-aggressive. Whatever. 

XXXXX

When they drive into Tijuana, it’s not like it’s immediately obvious that something supernatural is afoot. There aren’t riots in the streets, or fairy dust dripping from telephone poles. Stiles sees a few people that look disoriented and shell-shocked, but that could really be because of anything.

“Fen better not have been leading us on about Tijuana,” Jackson grumbles, looking at the window like he’ll see the fairy queen gallivanting down the street any second. 

“What we need to be looking for are fairy circles,” Lydia points out as they drive through the intersection, “if we’re lucky, they’ll be made of mushrooms, which will be easy to spot in the city. If we aren’t lucky, what I’ve been reading about fairy circles being able to camouflage themselves into their environment is true, and we’ll need to look around a lot more carefully.”

Groaning, Stiles thuds his head against the headrest. He’s going to be trapped in Mexico with Derek and the Pack of Concerned Friends forever isn’t he?

There’s another hotel, another keycard, another shared room with Scott and his long phone calls with Allison, and another breakfast with Derek and the pack the next morning. 

Every time Stiles sees Derek now, it’s like there’s this person jumping around in the back of his head, hollering “poke the dragon! Poke him!” And Stiles knows that it’s stupid and immature to poke the dragon, but then there the dragon is with his stupid face, poking back, and Stiles can’t resist. 

Plus, it’s easier to be mad at Derek than keep feeling guilty. 

During breakfast, Derek attacks Stiles’ food with the salt shaker, and the person jumping around in the back of his head hisses euphorically, “yesss, welcome to my level. It’s fun down here, isn’t it?”

Once they’re finished eating, they head to the part of town where most of the reports of erratic behavior have been coming from, then stand on a sidewalk and scratch their heads. 

“What are we supposed to do now?” Jackson asks, like it’s a personal insult that they aren’t prepared with a roster of fairy court locations and anti-fairy spray.

So they wander around the neighborhood for a week, looking for fairy rings. 

Stiles finds a shop that sells wicker bracelets exclusively, a group of UCSD students trying to find the meaning of life by begging on street corners -”like Japanese monks, you know dude?”- and some very interesting graffiti, but no fairy rings. Everybody else has similar results, which is to say, none.

He wishes he took Spanish, not French, in high school. He’s pretty sure the shopkeepers are laughing at him whenever he buys something, and not the fun kind of laughing. 

“We need a better plan,” Derek states matter-of-factly when they all meet back up on a square of old, cracked brick. “We’re getting nowhere fast.”

Lydia throws up her hands. “We’re going in a grid pattern, investigating anything circular that could be a fairy ring, hanging around places where other people have displayed enchanted behavior, what more are we supposed to be doing?”

“Something... else,” Derek grunts out, running a hand through his hair. “These fairies need to be dealt with.” He grumbles under his breath, “as violently as possible,” and Stiles has to suppress a smirk. Looks like Derek resents them a bit as well, would you look at that.

“If I may,” Stiles starts.

“Shut up.”

“Hey now!” Stiles protests.

“I don’t need any more of your unending sass, we’re trying to _problem solve._ ”

Of course Derek has to over enunciate “problem solve” like Stiles doesn’t know what the word means. It’s hilarious, real sense of humor that guy has. 

But then Stiles spots something, and what do you know, the universe has decided to take pity on Stiles at that moment and grace him with the best timing for a comeback ever. 

“ _I suggest_ ,” Stiles says with equal exaggerated pronunciation, “that we see what’s going on with those guys.”

He points over Derek’s head at a rooftop, where a guy -Stiles realizes it’s one of the UCSD guys- is standing at the edge, arms pinwheeling, his whole body faintly glowing turquoise. 

“Dude, I can fly!” Rooftop Guy hollers to his friends below. 

“Marcus, chill out!” his buddy with long hair hollers back up, “we’re all just tripping balls! I’m, like, seeing colors, that, like, shouldn’t be there. Don’t jump, man!”

Rooftop Guy dangles one of his feet over the edge. “No, I totally can, I can, like, feel it! My bones are totally levitating, dudes!”

With an awkward hop and a flail of his arms, Rooftop Guy removes his second foot from the roof and plummets downwards. For a split second, Stiles is terrified that he was just imagining the guy’s turquoise glow, and Rooftop Guy really is just out of his mind, but then Rooftop Guy lurches upwards. 

It kind of looks like swimming, but if the swimmer were drunk, and dealing with air instead of water. Rooftop Guy’s trajectory follows a crooked parabola as he flops his way over the bricks of the square, hanging onto flight by the skin of his teeth. Eventually he sort of approaches the ground, and gets a little closer, then a little closer, until he’s sitting on his ass on the bricks, looking understandably dazed and confused. 

“Well that was anticlimactic,” Boyd notes.

Rooftop Guy’s friends rush over to him, and the pack rushes further into the square, looking for the source of the magic. 

Stiles sees a tall man with a neck that looks almost a foot long silhouetted in the alleyway and yelps, “over there!” 

Derek is the closest to him, and the first into the alleyway after the fairy. The rest of them quickly follow, hands twitching towards the pieces of iron they all have secreted on their persons. 

The fairy’s neck is not the only long and skinny thing about him. The entirety of his figure looks like it was made out of silly putty, then stretched lengthwise by some enterprising kid. Even his hair sticks up in skinny spikes. 

Spreading his hands out generously, the fairy drawls enticingly, “anybody up for a dance? Feel like flying? Come on kidsss, you think this town is crazy? I can show you things that are... out of this world.”

Pausing for a second, the pack glances at each other.

Stiles mutters, “always with the puns, these villains.”

At that, Derek gives out a huff of a laugh under his breath, and saunters forwards with a confidence that is either impressive or stupid, considering how much taller than him the fairy is. 

Derek grabs the front of the fairy’s elaborately tie-dyed shirt and yanks it forward. Stiles rolls his eyes. This is going to end badly, it always does when Derek gets to posturing. 

“I’ll tell you what we’re up for,” Derek hisses into the fairy’s face, “we’re up for slamming your whole court of fairies with so much iron they won’t be able to breath without inhaling rust.”

Impressive wordsmithing, Stiles will admit. The fairy seems to agree, since he yanks himself out of Derek’s grasp, losing a bit of shirt as he goes, and skips backwards a few steps until he disappears. 

Stepping forward, Isaac looks at the ground. “Ohhh... it’s a circle of spray paint.”

Lydia smacks Jackson on the back of the head. 

“What was that for?” Jackson protests.

“I needed to smack somebody,” Lydia growls. “Why have we been ignoring those? They’re all over the place!”

Boyd shrugs. “We assumed it was a gang sign.”

“What gang would that be,” Derek grumbles, “‘The Circles?’”

“Intimidating,” Stiles adds.

There’s a popping noise behind them, and Stiles turns to see the fairy return, as well as a few of his friends. And by “a few,” Stiles means “a metric ton of fairies armed to the teeth.” He isn’t even sure what half of the weapons do, he just knows that he wants nothing to do with them, and they’re pointy. 

“Go, just go,” Derek barks. 

They go. There’s putting up a fight, and then there’s being idiots martyring themselves when there’s a way out. Sometimes turning tail is just the best idea. The air outside of the alley feels much fresher when they reach it, and Stiles breathes it in happily as he and everyone else sprint as far away as they can. He’s so glad that they know a strategic retreat when they see one, now. Back in the day, it was “kill the monster immediately or die.” Now it’s more of a “meet the monster a few times, gather knowledge, then kill the monster later in a more practical way.” Way more effective. They even know how to run away: in pairs, so if one of them gets cornered, they have a buddy, but the whole pack isn’t in danger of dismemberment, or kidnapping via fairies, or spells being cast on them. So Isaac is running west with Scott, Erica and Boyd are going east, Lydia and Jackson are going south, and- 

Wait.

Stiles turns a 180 and sprints back towards the alley. Sure enough, there’s Derek, half wolfed out, backed up against a wall, fighting off five fairies at once while the rest wait to take their turn if Derek manages to down one of them. 

Right now, it’s looking like Derek won’t manage to down one of them. 

Scrambling to unzip one of the pockets in his cargo pants -silly looking, but practical- Stiles grasps a miniature aerosol bottle in one hand, and a short iron rod in his other. He works his way through the crowd of fairies sloppily, just going for the eyes with the spray -lemonwort tincture- and for the crotch with the iron. He’s lucky: the fairies are more concerned with the angry Alpha werewolf than the scrawny human, and from where he’s standing, it’s only a few fairies deep to Derek.

Reaching between two fairies with one hand, and clubbing them across the head with the iron in his other hand, Stiles gets ahold of Derek’s belt loop and tugs. 

Derek makes a questioning growl, pausing mid claw swipe to look at Stiles pulling on him. It’s ridiculous, Derek gets into anything resembling a challenging fight and it’s like he can’t smell anything outside of it.

“Fucking- Derek, come _on_ ,” Stiles groans, pulling harder, “there is literally no reason for you to be here. Move that ass. Come on, we aren’t killing a whole fairy court today.”

After a few more pulls, he and Derek are running down the alley, a few of the fairies chasing after them, but most content to filter back to the court. They’re a block or two away when the fairy brigade is almost entirely gone. 

“Looks like they were on the defensive, not offensive,” Stiles wheezes. “But still! You!” He rounds on Derek, whipping his hand away from where it had automatically come to rest on Derek’s weak spot, “just. Ugh, of course you would.”

“Would what?” Derek snaps. 

“Stay behind to fight them off like you’re some sort of action hero, instead of some idiot who’s going to get himself killed!”

Derek smacks his hand against the closest vertical surface, which happens to be the wall of a taqueria. “I was going to be fine. I just needed to distract them while the rest of you escaped. Why did you even turn back, anyway?”

“Because,” Stiles sighs in irritation, “I know you like the back of my inexplicably untanned hand, and you always do this shit, with the putting other people before your own safety, even when it is literally the stupidest thing you could do.”

Looking at Stiles oddly, Derek says slowly, “you knew I’d stay behind.”

“Yes! I mean, I know you, don’t I?” Stiles grumbles. 

“Nobody else turned around.”

“Yeah, well, they were busy running for their lives,” Stiles says distractedly as he checks his phone. “Okay, so we’re going to meet back at the hotel, and everybody has sent their ‘I’m alive’ text, so we’re good. Come on, let’s go find a stupid bus or something. I’m telling you Derek, if you had just brought the car with you-”

“I’m not parking the camaro on these streets-”

“See now, that’s profiling. You just assume that all of the creepy dudes hanging out on street corners are going to steal your car, when the only proof you have are the crowbars they’re always carrying around.”

XXXXX

Their hotel is not fantastic, but it’s functional, which is more than Stiles can say for some of the wrecks they passed on their way into town. When it comes right down to it, all he cares about is if there’s a softish bed, and there is one, so he’s mostly cool with it. 

He collapses into bed exhausted, with his limbs sore, and the smell of industrial strength detergent in his nose. 

He wakes up still exhausted, his limbs protesting at being hoisted out of bed, with the smell of cold dirt in his nose. 

Then he’s whacked over the head with something heavy, and he goes back to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter, some pretend/fake relationship. That's always fun.
> 
> [EDIT] Everybody gets nervous around this point in the story. This is fanfiction. There will always be a happy ending.


	11. A Revelation

The first thing he sees is a neon turquoise sky, and he isn’t sure whether he’s awake or not. Stiles has had enough nightmares about the fairy court to be unsure.

Scott groans next to him and flails, his arm whacking Stiles across the forehead. Well that sure feels real. Thanks Scott.

Underneath both of them is what seems to be miles of shag carpet that end in the distorted silhouettes of trees, blue from distance. The air tastes orange. 

The rest of the pack are scattered across the shag carpet, mostly asleep. Isaac is awake, but the rest are twisted up with whatever contortions their sleep has brought upon them. Werewolves tend to move more in their sleep, and Stiles can’t help but make connections between them and dogs chasing rabbits in their dreams. 

From the corner of his eye, Stiles can see where Derek is lying, tense and still. He always has to be the exception, doesn’t he?

There’s a rustle behind him, and Stiles quickly closes his eyes. He’d sort of forgotten that they’d been kidnapped. After a while, the kidnappings all blur together until they aren’t important anymore. If this particular abduction follows the same pattern, they’ll be back at the hotel by that night. 

A cool hand brushes across his cheek. “I know you’re awake, baby.”

Grudgingly, Stiles opens his eyes. It’s the queen. She’s chewing bubblegum, and he can smell the sickly sweet scent of it from where he’s lying. To be fair, she isn’t that far away from him. They’re separated by a matter of inches, and it’s disconcerting. 

The queen blows a bubble, and pops it. A burst of indigo smoke floats up from the popped bubble, lazily floating upwards before nonchalantly dissipating. “So you dudes are persistent, huh? Like, super lame vigilantes or something. Like, you’ve gotta be really dedicated to come here even when your Alpha is basically out of his mind. But,” she chuckles knowingly, “you know that already.”

Memories of Fen hinting that the spell on Derek was meant to incapacitate him with emotional instability dance through Stiles’ head, so Stiles widens his eyes and asks, “so you know what’s wrong with him? He hasn’t been himself.” Filling his voice with outrage, he demands, “what did you do to him?”

The Queen taps a finger against her lips. “That’s for me to know and you to find out, dude. Oh, he’s waking up! That’s what the smoke was for,” she whispers conspiratorially, “we had to drug those wolves out of their minds to get them here. And like, I’m all for drugs, but sometimes you need to sober your prisoners up with summa this stuff.” She gestures at the low hanging cloud of indigo smoke. 

“Wha-” Scott groans.

“Shhhittt...” Erica moans at the same time. 

Derek doesn’t make any noise when he’s woken up. He’s been knocked out so many times by now that it must barely even register. 

But, you know, he still sucks and doesn’t deserve Stiles’ pity. 

The Queen looks expectant, her pencil thin eyebrows poised, when Derek pulls himself up to a sitting position. She glances minutely at Stiles for a second, before looking back at Derek, and Stiles realizes what he has to do. And good god, if it isn’t going to be painful. 

“Baby!” Stiles cries, flinging himself forward, stumbling over the few feet of shag carpet between himself and Derek so he can loop his arms around Derek’s waist and tighten them like a noose. “You’re okay!”

Dazedly, Derek’s hands come up to pat at Stiles’ shoulder blades, and he raises an eyebrow incrementally. It’s a damn good thing that Stiles is fluent in eyebrow speak.

Stiles looks pointedly at the queen, who’s watching them, a gleeful, predatory smile on her face. 

“I’m fine,” Derek replies, making his voice low and shaky, like there are a thousand neurotic twitches concealed within it. “But what about you? Are you alright? If they harmed a hair on your head, I swear, I’ll rip them limb from limb, I can’t- I’d die without you, you know that, right Stiles? You’re my world, my universe-”

He’ll say this for Derek: he’s a smart guy. He might be an asshole, but he’s a smart guy. Also a surprisingly good actor. 

“Okay, okay,” Stiles shushes soothingly, “I’m fine, it’s okay, it’s okay. We’ll find a way out.”

“I don’t know about that,” the queen drawls smugly. “I have some pretty wicked plans for you guys. You know, when you first showed up, I was going to have you die, but then you turned out to be fellow magical beings, and I thought, ‘I’ll just cripple them then,’ but now it looks like you guys are actually a bunch of buzzkills that just wanna rain on our parade. Who do you think you are? Hunters? We’re just trying to have a good time.”

Scott and Jackson burst out in matching growls, tensing for a fight, and the queen laughs. “Please, as if you could possibly hold yourself together enough for a fight when your Alpha is out of commission. You’re like a caterpillar with its head cut off, all wiggly wormy.” Her eyes roll back into her head as her fingers skitter around, imitating the caterpillar in question. 

“She’s right!” Stiles announces, hoping he isn’t laying the regret on too thick, “there’s no use in fighting, we’re useless without Derek.”

Scott and Jackson continue growling, not quite getting it, but Isaac gives them each a little smack and they back down somewhat. 

For his part, Derek just hums and nestles his nose in Stiles’ hair, looking oblivious to the drama unfolding around him. Stiles hates the part of him that is purring contentedly at the familiarity of it. But Derek’s arms are around Stiles’ shoulders, so Stiles can feel the tenseness in them as Derek prepares to spring at any moment. It’s all just part of their hastily improvised plan.

Out of the corner of his eye, Stiles catches Lydia murmuring something under her breath, and then his attention is directed elsewhere as a retinue of surly looking fairies flicker into existence behind the queen. 

They don’t look like the carefree partiers of the rest of the court. They look like old metal and stone, weathered by time and rain. Stiles can’t tell whether their skin is flesh or something more solid, but either way, it’s gray and faintly scaly, like something you’d find under a rock, but multiplied in size and lethality. 

“Easssssyy,” hisses one of them, with a forehead twice as long as the rest of his face. “Give ussss a fork and we’re ready.”

Another saunters forward, wrecking ball fists clenched at his side, “we live to ssserve The Lady. We will ssserve the lady. We shall conssssume for the lady.”

A third one simply nods. Stiles can’t keep track of how many of them there are. The number keeps changing, or they keep moving, or something makes his eyes skitter away like water on a hot pan.

It’s slow, the way they move, and that’s more intimidating than anything. It’s the ones that attack slow, like they’re a force of nature, like you can’t fight with them any more than you could with an earthquake, that are really frightening. You see them coming, and they don’t care. 

And all they have on their side is surprise. Surprise, in a fight, boils down to a few extra seconds if you’re lucky. It’s the consolation prize of secret weapons to have going into a fight. 

Stiles can feel Derek vibrating with stored energy in his arms, and he hopes it’s enough. No matter how many times they find themselves in these situations, these intersection-of-a-rock-and-a-hard-place situations, Stiles can’t help but wonder if this will be the fight that brings them down. It’s one thing to have bravado going in, but going out, Stiles can’t help but wonder if they’ll be mourning the loss of Scott, or Isaac, or Lydia, or Jackson, or Erica, or Boyd, or Derek. If this will be the fight that they’ll go over and over again in their heads, years from now, trying to figure out what went wrong. 

There’s a cracking noise, like ice breaking under the steel bow of a ship, and the fairies’ thick, stony fingers lengthen and thin out, being stretched by some invisible force that turns fingers into feelers, searching rods that twitch and scuttle along the shag carpet, closer and closer, like roaches looking for food.

Somewhere in the distance, the fairy party rages, and the faint noise of whooping yells can be heard. 

One of the feelers twitches up Isaac’s legs, heading for his chest, and Derek rips away from Stiles, who briefly feels lost, like he should be grabbing back onto Derek’s shoulders. The feeling dissipates quickly, all he has to do is remember _“That’s not denial. That’s me... losing interest,”_ and he doesn’t give a damn if Derek leaves or not. 

Derek pounces on the queen’s fairies, shedding his love spell disguise like so much extra clothing, and putting on his claws and teeth and flashing eyes instead. Fear his wrath and all that. 

The others spring into action, and Stiles... well, Stiles is still in his pajamas, and has no weapons other than his sarcasm, so mostly he works on not letting any of the creepy fairy finger-tendrils get to him. He isn’t sure what the effects of them are exactly, but they definitely look like the sort of thing to be avoided. Like mysterious berries in the woods: it’s just a good idea to keep away unless you want a weird rash, or, you know, death.

“Oh, playing pretend, that was very cute,” the queen sneers, “you think you’re just a buncha geniuses, huh?”

Using the tips of her claws so no skin comes in contact with the feelers, Erica snaps the end off of one of the fairies’ fingers. It comes off with a squeal like nails on a chalkboard. The fairies move faster, and the newfound urgency in their movements is reassuring. That said, nobody can think of anything to do other than snap and slash at the fairy fingers, and that’s great for shock value, but they’re still trapped in an alternate dimension where the fairies have unlimited backup, so. There’s that. 

The fairy party off in the distance is still raging, and Stiles wonders how much longer before the queen calls them in. 

Then the queen bursts into pink flames, and Stiles remembers that she technically doesn’t ever need backup. 

Stiles hits the floor as a pink fireball whizzes over his head. It avoids his face, but can’t dodge the shag carpet, which it lands on and sets on fire. With the smell of burning dust in his nose, Stiles staggers backwards, then slams straight into the broad, unyielding chest of one of the fairies. 

He doesn’t look happy, and raises one of his creepy, distorted hands. Stiles’ heart goes wild in his chest. Stiles can’t help but imagine being gored on that one long finger, still alive, but trapped like a pig on a spit.

The fairy looks down at him, no pity in his eyeless face. 

“Wait,” calls a crisp voice, unworried and precise. 

Fen certainly has a sense of dramatic timing. Maybe he’s been taking lessons from Derek, whose midair somersault lands him standing face to face with Fen. 

“What are you doing here?” demand Derek and the queen in unison. 

Derek’s expression is the usual one of irritation that he wears around Fen, but the queen’s is... surprising. Her flames have gone out, and her posture has deflated so that it looks like all of her strings were cut. Her hands dangle limply from her wrists, and her shoulders slump as she looks at Fen in unabashed amazement. 

“Fen...” she murmurs dazedly. One of the gray fairies steps forward, but she holds up a single thin hand and they freeze.

Raising a palm, Fen replies, “Mone. It has been some time. I am here,” he clarifies, “because I have allied myself with this pack, and the clever one,” he nods at Lydia, “summoned me.”

So that was what she was muttering under her breath. Stiles is going to have to have some words with Lydia about not sharing all her information. Stern words. He can be stern with Lydia, okay?

“So... that’s where you’ve been. Wandering around with werewolves?” the queen asks helplessly. 

Fen shrugs. “It has not been enjoyable. They smell strange,” Scott’s face twists up in irritation, “but I couldn’t stay here anymore, Mone. You know that.”

The queen laughs bitterly under her breath. “Mone. I haven’t been called that in a long time.”

“There is power in the old names.”

“I know!” she snaps. “I know, you don’t need to preach faerie at me like an old man anymore. We remember where that went last time, right?”

“Yes,” Fen sighs. “You and I always differed on those points. But I wish-” Fen’s face actually shows an expression, and it’s something like sadness and disappointment. “I wish it weren’t the case. We got along so well otherwise. Mone...”

“I know,” Mone whispers. “I’ve missed you.”

“I am not coming back,” Fen replies stoically. “I cannot. Not with the- the human drugs, and the ‘road trips’ and the cavorting and kidnappings, Mone. Not like this.”

Stiles glances at Scott with a practiced “awkward, right?” glance. Scott looks like he might be tearing up a little, the sap. 

Mone skips forward, her stick like legs floating over the flames to stand next to Fen, “but don’t you understand? It’s so much easier this way! To just lie back, and be free, and get into the sort of trouble that would have us ripped from our skins back in Glenfallow.”

“Just because we aren’t in Glenfallow anymore,” Fen begins, shaking his head, “does not-”

“This isn’t about rebelling from our childhood, Fen, it’s about doing something easy for once, not getting all hung up on tradition and properly constructed spellwork and, and, what’s ‘right.’” Mone is holding her hands out to Fen, but his hands twitch, then stay at his sides. “Just stay. Stay, Fen. It’s been too long.”

“Mone, I cannot. I am only here to retrieve my allies as per my agreement with them. When you see me again, I-” Fen’s face contorts in pain, “I will be taking your throne from you, my dear.”

Stiles looks over at Erica, who shrugs, looking as confused as he is. Looks like Fen hadn’t been sharing everything about his relationship with the queen.

Giggling uncontrollably, Mone holds her hands up to her face, and removes a glittering liquid from under her eyes that Stiles realizes is probably tears. “I should kill you. Oh my god, I totally should, but I can’t.”

Looking at Mone sadly, Fen taps his foot on the shag carpet, and a perfect black ring emerges as though it had been burnt in. He nods at the pack, and gestures at the ring. “If you would?”

Scott steps forward first, because he always has to be a hero, and disappears, followed shortly by Isaac, Erica and Boyd, Lydia and Jackson. Stiles’ foot is hovering over the ring when Mone calls, “wait! Hang on! Wait!”

She and Fen are a perfect pair with their mutual love of dramatic timing. 

Stiles withdraws his foot, because hell if he’s not going to see what happens next in their soap opera. It’s way more compelling than it should be, probably because there’s something familiar about it. 

Mone opens her arms in a weary gesture of peace. “At least tell me, did you take the spell off of the Alpha, or is my casting so bad that it, like, wore off on its own?”

“The Alpha is right here,” Derek growls. “And I’ve been free of your curse for weeks now, you... horrible woman.”

For a scowly, leathery werewolf, Derek is surprisingly mild-mannered when it comes to insulting ladies. If anyone deserves to be called a bitch, it’s the fairy queen, but Derek can never force that word out of his polite little mouth. It makes Stiles wonder exactly how fearsome Laura and Talia were, that Derek still isn’t allowed to say it. 

Also, “curse?” Is Stiles really a curse? Derek’s an asshole.

Tilting her head curiously, Mone muses, “no, you haven’t been free of it for weeks, there’s still itsy bitsy traces of it that should be gone if you’ve been free for weeks. Just,” she huffs in exasperation, “Fen, what did you do?”

Fen shifts slightly from foot to foot. “We unraveled the Chain of Marcanos in the spell matrix. It was sloppy, but it was supposed to work.”

Mone’s eyebrows twist in sympathy. “Well yeah, that would work eventually, but,” she makes another exasperated huff, “Fen, that would make the spell wear off incredibly slowly. Oh-” her eyes flit to Stiles. “You poor boy.”

Well fuck her, Stiles doesn’t need her pity. This fairy was going to have him killed not fifteen minutes ago. Stiles is having trouble dealing with the whiplash he’s getting from these sudden mood swings, both hers and his. 

It’s like when you reach the climax of a book, and all of the loose ends come together, so the entirety finally makes sense. If the spell was just taking its sweet time to wear off, then of course Derek was taking his sweet time to say goodbye. A few feet away, it looks like Derek is having some revelations of his own. He’s still an asshole, though. Stiles isn’t going to let all be forgiven, no sir, he has his pride. 

The queen is still going. “Oh my god, and if you reciprocated- daaaamn well I sure found a good way to torture somebody. That must have _sucked._ ”

Stiles nods, replying sarcastically, “thanks for noticing. Really appreciate you feeling bad about it after the fact.”

“I do, though! Oh my god, if somebody had... to _me_...” the queen glances at Fen, where he’s standing at the edge of the ring, ready to exit. Her shoulders are heaving up and down as she breathes heavily, thinking, thinking. 

“I’ll call them off,” she says abruptly. “I’ll call the court off, and we’ll go back to Beacon Hills. Keep out of the human world.”

Fen’s eyes widen. “Mone...”

“There are still old faeries in the court that wouldn’t object. And... I wouldn’t mind going back and doing things the right way. If that’s what you want. As long as you just stay, for once.”

Stepping away from the faerie ring on the ground, Fen rushes out, “I would, I would, come _here_ ,” and Mone leaps into the air, flying a good two yards forward so she can land on Fen’s chest, wrapping her limbs around it like a spider monkey. One of Fen’s hands comes to rest on her half shaved head, cradling it gently. 

“Go,” he tells Derek and Stiles. “I suspect we shall not see each other again for a long while.”

Derek glances at Stiles, who steels himself. “Well, come on, Alphaman, let’s roll.”

Rolling his eyes, Derek follows Stiles through the ring, and the fairy/faerie world winks out. 

They end up in some random alleyway on the west side of Tijuana. As they try to find a bus or a cab or something to take them back to the hotel, Stiles says to break the silence, “So. I guess we’ve dealt with our monster of the week. Or, like, monster of the months. Took us a long time to deal with those fairies, huh?”

“We didn’t deal with them, Fen dealt with them.”

“Whatever. Since when are you a stickler for the facts?”

“I’m just pointing it out.”

“Fine.”

They walk for a few more blocks. Night is falling, and Stiles can tell it makes Derek tense, because he’s taken to walking ever so slightly behind Stiles, providing support from the rear. He would even do it back in Beacon Hills, when the most they had to fear from city streets at night were angry cats. 

Or, you know, kanimas, hunters, and a troll on one memorable occasion. Stiles’ point is that Derek is overprotective, okay?

“You’re doing that thing where you walk behind me.”

“It’s just good sense.”

“Sure, buddy. Protect me from the abandoned street why don’t you. I’m sure the shadows are very intimidated.”

Stiles looks behind himself to see Derek gritting his jaw and pointedly watching the rest of the street. 

“Hey, so while I’m pointing out elephants in the room, or street or whatever, the fairy queen kind of said some stuff about the spell.”

Nodding tersely, Derek answers, “It did explain some things. I was wondering why my...feelings” it’s hard for Stiles not to giggle when Derek forces the word out like it’s a curse, “were lessening when you didn’t seem to be changing at all.”

Stiles manages a nod and turns back around. He knows Derek doesn’t care about him anymore, but it still smarts to hear it out loud. 

XXXXX

It turns out that everybody had been spit out by different fairy rings around the city, and Derek and Stiles were spit out by the one farthest from the hotel, so when they come back, they’re greeted by a parade of jubilant pack members. 

“Who-oah-” Stiles laughs as he pulls himself free of Erica’s embrace only to be the Stiles filling of a Scott and Isaac hug sandwich. “Hi everybody. Was there a party we missed?”

Scott knuckles the top of Stiles’ head and exclaims, “we’re just happy that everybody’s alive, and mostly because you and Derek are _finally_ back together!”

Stiles meets Derek’s equally shocked eyes. “I think you’re going offa some fraudulent info there, Scotty.”

Looking between Stiles and Derek, Scott’s face falls. “Oh. I thought- ohh it was to put them off guard!”

“Got it in one,” Stiles proclaims, clapping Scott on the shoulder and moving to give Boyd a hug as well. Everybody forgets to hug Boyd, it really is a shame.

“Of course you couldn’t just get back together,” Jackson grumbles, “that would be too easy. Instead, we’re just going to have to deal with a full moon and an Alpha who won’t have an anchor anymore. Thanks, Stilinski.”

The conversation carries on smoothly after that, as Derek explains the situation with the fairies, and everybody drifts back to their hotel rooms. 

But before going to sleep on his last night in Mexico, Stiles stares at the discolored ceiling and wonders about anchors, and slow moving love spells, and he finds it hard not to be wishful.


	12. Control Over the Radio

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're in the final stretches. Whooo boy.

You know that phrase, “fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, shame on me?”

Well, Stiles is feeling pretty ashamed of himself right now. It looks like his backstabbing, traitorous, so-called “friends” aren’t done trying to get him and Derek back together, because would you look at that, now they’re trapped in the same car again. Alone. For at least the next six hours. 

Needless to say, Stiles is in a murderous mood for most of the morning. At least Derek is in a similar place, so they can just sit in passive-aggressive silence. 

Quiet, endless, silence. 

Dragging on and on and on. 

Nothing but watch the endless cityscape of San Diego whiz by. 

Nothing but the noise of the engine as a soundtrack. 

Stiles reaches for the radio and Derek bats his hand away. 

“Rude,” Stiles protests. 

“Whose car is this?” Derek asks challengingly.

“I thought what belonged to the pack belonged to everybody. Or at least, that’s how everybody’s been treating my coffee supply.”

“Just leave the radio alone.”

“Fine.” Stiles taps his fingers against the windowpane. Watches a few highway signs pass by. They have 751 miles to go. 

“ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall, ninety-nine bottles of beer...” Stiles glances at Derek, who is watching the road with a stony face. He increases his volume. “Yooouuu take one down, pass it around, ninety-eight bottles of beer on the wall! Ninety-eight bottles of beer on the wall! Ninety-eight bottles of beer! Yooouuu-”

“-take one down, pass it around, ninety-seven bottles of beer on the wall!” Derek hollers back. 

Stiles stops. He twists his whole body around to look Derek in the eye, even if he has to press all up against the dashboard to do it. 

Derek just raises an eyebrow. A challenge.

Squinting at Derek like an outlaw facing down a sheriff in the middle of main street, Stiles continues, “ninety-seven bottles of beer on the wall, ninety-seven bottles of beer, _yoouuu-_ ”

“ _-take one down, pass it around, ninety-six bottles of beer on the wall!_ ” Derek joins in. 

Stiles will be damned if he’s going to let Derek shut him up this time. He knows Derek is trying to wear him out, but nobody is better at endurance than a Stilinski. 

Okay, so he cuts out at negative thirty-eight bottle of beer on the wall, letting out a theatrical groan and melting into the seat like so much Stiles putty. “Jesus, your family road trips must have been hell,” he grumbles.

Chuckling darkly, Derek passes a lumbering whale of a truck, wide fingers splayed surely over the wheel. “Don’t try me, Stilinski. I can make this worse.”

See, here’s the thing: Stiles knows that if anybody is better at making things worse, it’s Derek. Derek is like an uninformed blogger posting after a national tragedy: there’s no way that him doing anything will improve the situation. 

But here’s the other thing: Stiles is terrible at backing down. He’s the idiot commenting on the stupid blogger’s post, agitating all of the trolls and weirdos because he just can’t help himself. If he sees a big red button labelled “do not push,” he’s going to push it. 

That’s probably why he was ever with Derek to begin with. If Stiles had an ounce of common sense, he would have backed away quickly like that old lady in the youtube video. If he had any common sense, he would just throw in a clever parting comment that changed the subject, and they would move on, Stiles would dig his ipod out of wherever it is, and they could drive the rest of the way in silence. 

Giving Derek a hard time doesn’t even make Stiles feel better anymore. He’s basically just throwing salt up into the air and letting it land in everybody’s wounds at this point. If ever there were a time to walk away, it would be now. 

Instead, Stiles cracks his knuckles, and says “you wanna bet, big guy?”

It’s like in one of those movies where the nerd challenges the bully to a fight after school, and ends up strung up on the flagpole by his underwear. 

First, Derek turns off all of the air conditioning. His tolerance to heat is way higher than Stiles’. 

Stiles retaliates by grabbing his water bottle from the backseat and spending twenty miles sporadically flicking droplets at Derek’s face. 

The air conditioning comes back on around noon, when even Derek has had enough, but when they drive through Taco Bell for lunch, Derek gets the beaniest bean dish to ever bean. One would think that with his super smell, Derek would be the one regretting such a... pungent food choice, but no, Derek’s withstood torture too many times to be worried about the smells his own digestive system makes, so it’s Stiles who is leaning out of the car window making choking noises as they drive into Los Angeles. 

Once they hit the city proper, Stiles withdraws his head. He’d take the funk in the car over LA smog any day. 

On the way through LA the first time, Stiles had mostly been sulking and playing Nintendo with Scott. This time, he can actually take a look at the city. With summer setting in, the city is all bright blue skies and booty shorts, steaming pavements and designer sunglasses. There’s also a lot of traffic. And gray buildings. 

“Derek! Derek!” Stiles exclaims, breaking their unspoken ceasefire. 

“What?” he snaps. 

“Hollywood Boulevard!” Stiles points frantically at a sign suspended above the eight lane highway, “we have to see Hollywood Boulevard. We can’t drive through LA twice without seeing Hollywood Boulevard at least once.”

“Lydia will have our asses for getting behind schedule.”

Flapping a hand with more casualness than he actually feels, Stiles replies breezily, “She’s always got our asses for something. Wouldn’t it be sweet if it were for actually doing something cool. Come on, Derek, it’s an American icon. Do it for your country.”

“I don’t want-”

“Dereeekkkk,” Stiles whines, widening his eyes and letting his lower lip pout outwards a little. “I’m hereby calling a truce. In the name of America.”

Apparently Derek is patriotic or something, because he takes the exit. 

Hollywood Boulevard is everything it’s supposed to be: wax museums, tourists, stars on sidewalks, the Chinese Theater, glitz and plastic glamour. They drive the camaro down the first few blocks slowly, as the streets are glutted with jaywalkers and slow traffic lights, while Stiles breathes in the billboards and street musicians. It’s all delightfully tacky. 

After the initial slowness, traffic lets up a little and they follow the street further. Mini museums give way to smoke shops and bars, fishnet wearing mannequins and what Stiles is pretty sure is an honest-to-god drug deal going on between a guy in a fur coat and some other dude lying on the sidewalk. Fur Coat guy’s head jerks up when the camaro passes, and he makes a weird hand gesture at them. 

Derek and his weird werewolf protectiveness speed up the car, and they’re back on the highway in an improbably short time. 

“Well that was fun.”

Grunting softly, Derek sort of nods and merges back into the carpool lane. 

“Okay Monosyllabic Mark. I’m just saying, I didn’t know that Hollywood Boulevard got so... sketch so quickly.”

Wrinkling his face skeptically, Derek asks, “really? It’s sort of known for it.”

“What?”

“Terrible neighborhood.”

“I feel cheated,” Stiles whispers dramatically, wringing his hands.

“I hate tourist traps,” Derek adds. “They smell like too much sunscreen.”

“That- what, that doesn’t even make sense.”

“Moms assume that they’ll be outside all day, taking pictures or whatever people do, so the whole family gets slathered in sunscreen.”

“Is it really that ba-”

“Yes. It’s terrible. It smells like a laboratory. Sunscreen is all sorts of weird chemicals.”

“Dude, I _know_ ,” Stiles says eagerly, “I did a report on it once. Like, all sorts of shit is in there. Shit _are_ in there? Shit _is_ in there. But yeah, like you wouldn’t believe. Of course, your magical werewolf skin has probably never known the touch of the white goop from hell.”

Derek makes a “don’t be so sure” noise. “Once, we were at the pool with another family, and my mom’s friend lent us her sunscreen because she was afraid we’d all get melanoma and drop dead. We had to put it on, all four of us kids, for appearances sake. It was terrible.”

“That’s peer pressure, man. Just say no,” Stiles assures Derek in mock seriousness. 

It feels better to banter like this. It reminds Stiles of the old days, pre-everything, when Derek would have some crisis and come limping up to Stiles, who naturally had to give him a hard time about it. This makes Stiles feel like they’re buddy cops or something, trading jibes while they drive around on the beat, instead of bitter exes, trading insults while they quietly plot revenge. 

Stiles hadn’t been methodically filing away information about itching powder, no sir. That would be petty.

“So, uh,” he pipes up hesitantly, “what do you say the truce stays in effect for a while longer?”

Rolling his eyes, Derek answers, “fine, Stiles. Do you want it in writing?”

“Don’t push me, bucko.” 

Only 650 more miles to go. 

Stiles eventually get control of the radio, and after a 5 mile long argument over Radio Disney, Stiles finally stops fucking with Derek, changes the station, and they manage a compromise by finding a frequency that only plays hard rock. 

Later in the afternoon, Derek asks if Stiles is hungry. He is, so they pull into the nearest town. It turns out to not be the best place for eateries, so they end up at a steakhouse for what was supposed to just be a quick snack. Derek acts contrite about it, but Stiles knows that he’s doing little flips of joy inside at all of the red meat. Stiles has seen this man barbecue, and it would make even the most hardened of vegetarians cry. 

“Alright, gentlemen, you ready tuh order?” the waiter asks in a Southern drawl. Stiles doesn’t know who this guy thinks he’s kidding; this is southern California.

They order. Derek gets a steak. 

“Why are you laughing?” Derek asks, looking perplexed. 

Shrugging, Stiles replies, “it’s just really stereotypical. You should have asked for it raw. Or had them bring the cow out so you could slaughter it yourself and drag it back to your cave.”

“Common misconception,” Derek says quietly as he takes a sip of water.

“That you eat beef? Because I hate to break it to you, but steak is definitely beef. Now, if this is breaking some illusions for you, we can always pretend-”

“No, the wolf/cave thing. Wolves live in all sorts of habitats, and most of them don’t have caves. Do you have any idea how hard it is to actually find a good cave?”

Tilting his head, Stiles scrutinizes Derek carefully. “Are you saying you’ve gone out looking for a cave?”

“... I was curious for a period of time in my teens.”

“That is a politician’s answer right there, Derek Hale. Doesn’t answer a thing.”

“Oh look,” Derek exclaims, “our food!”

It’s ridiculous to watch Derek wolf down (pun intended) his food. Stiles is highly tempted to make an “if you love that steak so much, why don’t you just marry it” joke, but they aren’t really there yet.

The road again. Stiles is impressed at Derek’s driving stamina. He just knows that in Erica’s car, they’re switching off every few hours, but since Derek refuses to let anybody else drive the camaro, it’s just him behind the wheel, carrying them home for miles and miles. When he sets out to do something, he does it. 

Stiles realizes he’s paying creepily close attention to the way Derek’s wide hands land on the wheel, how his long fingers twist as they skim across its surface. Clearing his throat, he suggests, “I could drive for a little while.”

“Like hell you could.”

“I do actually have a driver’s license.”

Derek accelerates noisily, whizzing past a lethargic winnebago and switching lanes for the hell of it.

“Okay, that doesn’t prove anything,” Stiles protests, “I could do that.”

“But I won’t let you,” Derek shoots back cockily.

Groaning, Stiles twists around until he can prop his feet against the dashboard. “I’ll bet you let Isaac drive when he was in your car.”

“So?”

Feeling affronted, Stiles protests, “unfair!”

“Isaac deserves a little fun,” Derek says solemnly.

See, it’s moments like this when Stiles hates Derek to the bottom of his heart. The guy has to go and defy expectations all the time, break out of the walls of the box he made for himself like they’re made out of cardboard; be sensitive and caring and nurturing and shit when all Stiles wants to do is sneer at Derek’s overblown bad boy demeanor. 

Stiles hates Derek so much when he remembers how Derek still sits with Isaac to watch soccer games, years after Isaac stopped watching them with his father. Or when Derek lets Erica come in for a hug on one of her bad days, and squeezes her tight around the shoulders in the way that her parents are still nervous to do. (They still treat her like glass, but Derek always seems to know what she needs.) Stiles even hates Derek for letting Jackson into the pack after everything, taking him back with open arms and not letting anybody try to break down their newest pack brother, because he needs more support than he lets on. 

It’s hard to let that sort of thing pass. It’s hard to pretend that Derek is the scum of the earth when he keeps proving he’s not, and Stiles hates Derek for not making it easy. 

They go another forty miles, and Stiles is drifting in between sleep and wakefulness, drifting into a long drive coma. It reminds him of road trips with his parents, driving down to Yosemite, nothing but humming wheels and the good-natured bickering of his mom and his dad in the front. Orange juice in his cup-holder, warming as the hours went on, the chilly glass of the window against his forehead. 

Like now, it’s pressing against his face, and he’s smudging the cool surface, but Derek doesn’t seem to care. Stiles remembers on one of the hot days, back when Derek had a fire in him, Derek’s hands wrapped around a sweating glass of ice water, then teasingly pressing against Stiles’ neck. He’d yelped, lightly punched Derek’s shoulders, then pulled him in for a peck. Kisses were like punctuation then. Now, they would be a conversation stopper, an argument starter, a cause for concern, or anger. 

But Stiles sees Derek’s lips thin, then puff out again as he maneuvers through rush hour traffic, and he still wonders what it would be like to kiss them again. He realizes he’s never kissed Derek when Derek wasn’t under the influence, (barring that one during The Argument. That doesn’t count.) Stiles wants to know if it would be different. 

He’s never going to find out, though. They have 500 more miles, then it’s back to missing glances, and sitting across the room from each other. 

Stiles tries to distract himself by watching the highway signs go past, counting out the miles, amusing himself with the weird names of the towns they pass, trying to remember if he’s heard of them before. He doesn’t find anything as funny as the aptly named town of Weed up near Beacon Hills, but they do pass a tiny, drought-ridden town called Lost Hills, which Stiles thinks should be sister cities with Beacon Hills or something, because come on, that would be cool. 

The thing is, when Stiles is trying to distract himself is when he’s the least distractible. It’s like his brain goes, “oh, I see what you’re trying to do. Yeah, no.” So he ends up thinking, “500 miles, 500 miles, ooh look ‘weiser street’ isn’t that- but what about 500 miles 500 miles, hey, a house painted purple, 500 miles, 500 miles- Big Sur scenic detour, 150 miles west. Hmmm.”

“Heeyy, Derek,” Stiles says, voice muzzy from dozing. 

“What.” 

“We should go through Big Sur.”

Derek’s eyebrows draw together as he calculates the distance. “That wouldn’t get us home any faster.”

“No,” Stiles hedges, “but it would get us home more scenic-ier.”

“Why would I take us 150 miles out of our way just to drive along some scenic stretches of highway?”

Stiles holds up a finger in protest. “Now hang on one second, Derek. It’s not just a scenic stretch of highway. It’s an unforgettable seaside drive that shows off both California’s rugged beaches and its rolling green hills, displaying the beauty of the natural landscape in a-”

“Do you have a brochure hidden over there that you’re quoting from?” Derek asks incredulously. 

Waggling his eyebrows, Stiles retorts, “why do you ask? Because my sales pitch is so very, very convincing?”

“It’s not-”

“I think it is.”

Derek huffs out a beleaguered sigh, and that’s how Stiles knows that he’s won. “It’s a hell of a detour, Stiles. We’ll miss the hotel.”

“The others will be fine without us for one night. We’ll just have to make sure Scott stays away from sharp pointy things.”

“It’s still taking the really long way back.”

“Ah-ah-ah,” Stiles protests, “it’s taking the long way back. In a camaro.”

Derek’s eyes flick down to the dashboard, and Stiles knows he’s thinking about it. The thrum of the engine as it accelerates and decelerates around curving mountainside roads, the crashing sea on one side, sheer rock on the other. The roads emptying as they speed further and further into the night, until they’re finally just flying as fast as they can around and up and down. 

“Come on Derek,” Stiles wheedles, like Derek’s mind isn’t already made up, “once in a lifetime opportunity.”

It really isn’t, but Derek sighs and agrees anyway. 

Stiles calls Lydia and tells her that they’re taking a detour. She asks him who he thinks he’s kidding, voice smug and knowing. He tells her to shut up, it’s just taking the scenic route, for god’s sakes.

When he hangs up the phone, he can feel Derek’s eyes on his face. Sometimes (always) he hates werewolf hearing. “Watch the road,” he grumbles sulkily.

Turning down the radio a bit, Derek says, “it’s okay. It can just be a scenic detour.”

Stiles taps his fingers in a staccato rhythm against his knees, beating out his anxiety in the taps and flutters of his hands. “Yeah. I mean, that’s... yeah.”

It’s summer, but as they drive coast-ward, the stifling central valley temperatures lower until the only evidence of the season is the lingering daylight and the full bloom of every plant they pass. Carefully cultivated crops give way to rolling grassy hills, haphazard handfuls of trees scattered up and down slopes, met by sturdy scrubs closer to the ground. 

They’re driving straight towards the sun as it starts to set, so most of the ride is spent with sun visors down and sunglasses on. Stiles marvels at the sunglasses wearing figure sitting next to him in the drivers seat. Black jacket, car, hair, jeans, glasses. Derek is a picture painted in monochrome, a black and white cartoon of surliness. 

The car screeches to a halt in the middle of the highway, and Stiles throws out his hands to stop himself against the dashboard. Luckily, there are no cars behind them, but Stiles is still suffering a worrying case of almost-whiplash. 

“What the hell?”

Derek is leaning towards the windshield, looking at something. He lifts up his black sunglasses to reveal concerned blue eyes that watch something on the blacktop. 

“There was a rabbit crossing the road. I didn’t want to hit it.”

Stiles laughs, Stiles laughs and laughs and laughs. 

“Shut up. I didn’t want blood on the car.”

It’s too late, Stiles is too far gone. He laughs for the absurdity of it all, he laughs for the ridiculousness that is him and Derek trapped in a car together like a bad romcom, he laughs at how even now, Derek can pull on his heartstrings, he laughs for how he can’t help but dig himself into deeper and deeper holes. 

He laughs until he’s crying tiny, hot, hysterical tears and Derek is patting his knee, far out of his depth and just making everything worse. 

It’s probably because of that that when Stiles has mostly calmed down and they finally reach the coast, Derek pulls into one of the many scenic overlooks that litter the highway, and opens the door for “some fresh air. What? Are you the only one of us that’s allowed to announce pitstops?” 

So they sit on the low stone wall that separates the small parking lot from the drop-off of a cliff and watch the pacific like they’ve never seen it before. Stiles pulls out his camera and takes a “sunset over the ocean” picture that will join the millions taken before it. He even takes a video of the waves rolling in and the sound of the unceasing wind that screams into their ears like that angry banshee from last winter. 

Beside him, Derek shifts with a low rasp of denim against stone. Stiles glances over and his breath catches in his throat. 

He should have known better than this, because of course Derek would be literally breathtaking in the light of the sunset, sea breeze ruffling through his hair. 

It isn’t even Derek’s features so much that take Stiles’ breath away. Derek is and has always been gorgeous, his face following the golden ratio to a T, muscles sculpted to perfection and all of that. Blah blah blah, greek god. 

What really gets to Stiles, what shoves a hand into his chest and twists, is the look on Derek’s face as he gazes out meditatively to the west. His eyebrows are pulled together ever so slightly, his mouth turned down at the edges, his shoulders defensively hunched, but his face is tilted up into the sun. 

It’s easy to forget how much Derek has lost, especially now that he lives in an actual apartment with a ceiling and everything, but it’s moments like this, where he forgets that somebody is watching, that his loss is revealed again. The hands he has clasped between his knees have touched so much blood and ash, his hunched shoulders have carried so much. 

And yet his face is turned up. Derek may be broody, he may be prone to sulks and surliness, but he keeps on walking forward. He doesn’t let himself get beaten down, he pulls himself up by his bootstraps and gets himself a new pack, ties them together by bite and blood and family, helps them like he would want to be helped. 

Stiles eyes the bulge of Derek’s biceps under his shirt, and thinks that this man is strong in so much more than muscle. 

The hand around Stiles’ heart clenches again, and he gets what it means to feel heartbroken. It’s an actual sensation, like a rending of muscle and a rush of white-hot liquid through your veins that hurts, really hurts. It hurts because Stiles looks at Derek Hale, and thinks, “no, I don’t hate you at all.”

But they can’t go down that path again. 

450 more miles to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to check a map of California so many times while writing this chapter, you don't even know. In case you haven't noticed, I've decided that Beacon Hills is so Northern California it's almost Oregon. Yay, NoCal represent!


	13. A Lot of Confusion

The hotel is the sort of place that’s one story lifted up on stilts, where you park underneath your room and sleep under greenish brown sheets, with a view out the window of the sign that cheerfully advertises the color television and numerous vacancies. They might be the only people in the hotel, although it probably only seems that way because they stumbled in during the empty hours past midnight, smelling like sea air and pine. 

Derek’s a night showerer, the weirdo, so Stiles is already tucked under the thin motel blankets long before Derek emerges in a cloud of steam, with only a towel wrapped around his waist because come on, it’s not like Stiles hasn’t seen it all before. 

Stiles closes his eyes when Derek changes though. There’s a line he can’t cross without feeling like a creep. He hears the pitter patter of little werewolf footsteps, then the orchestral groan of the mattress springs as Derek gets into his own bed. Figuring it’s safe, Stiles opens his eyes to see Derek’s outline against the window, all bunched up shoulders and curled in knees. 

It looks uncomfortable, but Stiles knows that his body is basically echoing Derek’s position. For a longer time than he cares to admit, he’s been having trouble sleeping. Stiles’ bed just always feels cold, and he knows it’s in his head, but that doesn’t stop him longing for the soothing comfort of a warm body tucked around him, or for him to tuck around. So Stiles tucks into himself instead. At least he can say that he’s never resorted to hugging a pillow. That would just be sad. 

Eventually, after a laborious drag through half consciousness, Stiles does fall asleep. He dreams the same sort of dreams he always does, snippets of the day interspersed with a spicy pinch of total, fuck-all weirdness. The pseudo-southern waiter from the steakhouse offers him a fairy’s head on a platter, and Stiles says “no thank you, I’m on a truce.” A drug dealer in a fur coat glows turquoise and does a backflip onto the plate, and Stiles, Derek, and Dr. Deaton each punch him in the face, then go on a quest through the catacombs underneath the steakhouse to find mythical rose petals. “They’re somewhere,” Deaton says, “I know it. They’re still around.”

They’re the restless sort of dreams, where you’re never sure if you’re awake or not, that keep replaying, over and over again, the same mistakes getting made continuously, and it’s a carousel Stiles can’t get off because he’s so tired, he can only lean into the arms encircling him and breath with the slow moving chest pressed up against his back. In. Out. In. Out. Like the waves. In. Out. Golden sunsets and a soft smile. In. Out. In. Out. Sink back into the warmth of the body behind him and breathe.

When Stiles wakes up, the arms are gone, and so is Derek. 

He sits up blearily, and looks around the hotel room. There’s a hasty note scribbled on the pad of hotel stationary- “getting breakfast.” 

Nodding to himself, Stiles levers himself out of the bed and roots around in his bag for some clean clothes. At least it was a nice dream near the end, the type that sticks around, leaving a warm, fuzzy glow behind. Pulling a shirt over his head, possibly backwards, Stiles’ head pops out of the neckhole, and he notices that Derek’s sheets are barely mussed. Only one corner is untucked, and even that only barely rippled. Like Derek had either slept entirely still the whole night (and Stiles has researched, okay, nobody can stay that still while asleep, there have been, like, sleep studies,) or he hadn’t slept in that bed at all. 

At that thought, Detective Stilinski is unleashed. Padding lightly across the carpet, Stiles looks for clues. Derek’s bags are still in the room, so he hasn’t run out of town, but Derek’s pillow hasn’t been rotated sideways so he can tuck it under his arm like he likes. Sniffing the air, (which Stiles knows doesn’t help him, but what can he say, it’s a habit he’s picked up,) Stiles moves to the other end of the room and spies-aha!

Stiles knows about Derek’s morning habits, okay. Derek, when he wakes up in the morning, always spends a minute doing ridiculous, writhing, in-bed stretches before sitting up and changing into his day clothes. Stiles had always given him a hard time about it because Derek couldn’t go over to the closet to do it, no, he had to strip his clothes off while sitting on the bed, then walk across the room, buck-naked, to grab a change. It had led to some very distracting mornings, but most importantly, Derek always left his pile of sleep clothes on the floor by the bed. It was a bad habit, but now, looking at the small pile of Derek’s boxers, sleep T-shirt, and mismatched socks at the foot of Stiles’ bed, Stiles thanks all of the higher powers for that bad habit, because it offers evidence to where Derek slept last night. 

Then the full magnitude of the revelation hits Stiles, and he has a teensy-weensy, itsy-bitsy heart attack. Derek slept in Stiles’ bed last night, wrapped his arms around Stiles’ stomach and curled up around him, and gave Stiles the most restful sleep he’s had in a while. Stiles can’t deal with this, because this might mean that Derek- and Stiles can’t deal with that, he can handle mooning over Derek from afar, but he can’t handle getting his heart broken over a Derek and Stiles Drama, Part II. 

With an ominous, horror movie creak, the motel room door opens, and Derek strolls in, mouth quirked up at the edge, holding a bag of something that looks greasy. 

Stiles gestures casually at Derek, then realizes he’s holding Derek’s boxers and drops them hastily. “Aha. Ha. Good morning.”

Raising an eyebrow, Derek returns, “good morning,” and hands Stiles a styrofoam box with something warm in it. “I got extra syrup packets.”

“Sweet!” Stiles crows, digging in the paper bag for the receptacles of sweet, sweet, sugary goodness.

Clearing his throat uncomfortably, Derek points at his boxers, lying limply near Stiles’ knee on the bedspread. “Ah, you noticed.”

“Wh? Mm, yye, I fou-” Stiles takes a second, swallows, then repeats, “yeah, and I’ll say, yes, creepy, but I get it.”

Both of Derek’s eyebrows raise this time. “You do? That... changes things.”

“Well, you slept in my bed last night,” Stiles points out reasonably, doing his best to remain casual as he tries to stab a piece of pancake with a plastic fork, “which, a little weird, but I, y’know, understand wanting to sleep with company. Easier to sleep. Right?” he asks, willing Derek to agree with him, say _that’s all it is_ and let it go.

Nodding slowly, Derek agrees, “yeah. It’s uh, it’s partially a wolf thing too.”

“Right!” Stiles exclaims eagerly. It comes out sort of frantic and shrill. “A wolf thing. Just a, you know, perfectly normal wolf thing. Comfort thing. Whatever.”

“Whatever,” Derek repeats faintly, digging in the paper bag for his styrofoam box of- now why couldn’t Stiles get french toast? “So, truce still on for today?”

“Dude, if the truce is off, I’ll say the truce is off,” Stiles replies easily, sliding back into a comfortable topic. 

“Just checking,” Derek mumbles around a mouthful of eggy, toasty magnificence. “I’d hate to put on my clothes and find itching powder in them.”

Stiles pulls his best guilty face. “Well this is awkward...”

Derek freezes for a second, then rolls his eyes and continues eating.

“Hey,” Stiles objects, “that could be a real threat.”

Derek shakes his head mutely, not even bothering to stop chewing. 

“I’ll have you know I’m a menace.”

Swallowing, Derek retorts, “you haven’t used itching powder since that time you tried to prank Scott with it and it exploded in your hands. You had a rash for two weeks.”

“I’ve told you too many stories.”

Derek shrugs, finishing his french toast. “I’ll put the bags back in the car. Can you check us out?”

“Ugh, the receptionist hates us,” Stiles groans, “we made her check us in at 12:30 last night.”

Grinning with all of his teeth, Derek tosses his boxers and toothbrush back into his bag, “no, she hates me. You though, you have -you called them ‘bambi eyes’- that you can use on her, and maybe she won’t bite your head off.”

Grumbling, “I dunno, those dentures looked sharp,” Stiles gets up. 

“Just be cute at her,” Derek calls unhelpfully as Stiles closes their room’s door. It’s a wonder that Derek can effectively lead a werewolf pack with advice like that. 

After Stiles escapes the hotel office by the skin of his teeth, Derek is back on highway one, taking them through the last few miles of Big Sur, when he asks, “Monterey next?”

Stiles has actually been to Monterey. It’s one of about seven billion cute seaside towns along the California coast, all expensive seafood restaurants and kitschy boardwalk attractions, plus some bonus aquarium action. It’s one more pit stop on their already meandering trip back home, and Lydia will be mad, but Stiles isn’t sure he really cares if she gets mad. They bypassed any chances of a normal, efficient drive to Beacon Hills long ago, and if Derek is onboard, then so is Stiles. He’s willing to have one last party on the ship before it sinks. 

So he says, “yeah, bring it on. But we have to go to the Monterey Aquarium, and I’m making you touch a manta ray.”

Derek hates the manta rays, and they hate them. The attendant says they’re normally very docile, he has no idea why all of the manta rays in the touch tank swarmed Derek’s hand and tried to spear it with the shorn remnants of their stingers. Stiles just laughs and laughs at Derek’s put out expression. He looks like some poor kid that got rejected by a puppy, water dripping from his hair, hand still submerged in the salt water. 

Derek flicks salt water at him and calls it payback. 

Stiles may have flicked some back. Or, according to aquarium security “engaged in a water fight in the touch tank area, requiring forcible expulsion.”

Whatever. Newly banned for life from the Monterey Bay Aquarium, they walk along the rickety timbers of Monterey’s boardwalk, taking in the neon candy shops and pirate themed souvenir stores. Stiles tries to convince Derek to buy an eyepatch, and Derek soundly refuses. 

“At least a pirate hat!”

“What am I supposed to do with a pirate hat?”

“Put it over your mantle and call yourself the dread pirate Hale?”

“You’re thinking of Peter,” Derek replies straight faced.

Stiles cracks up, but still gets a picture of Derek wearing a pirate hat on his phone. It takes some grappling, and Stiles would say he’s not proud, but he totally is. 

They end up with a pirate hat keychain that Stiles tries to twist onto Derek’s boring, empty keyring while they eat curly fries on the wharf. 

“Oh my god!” Stiles exclaims as his finger gets pinched and the key ring snaps shut again. “Who designed these things.”

Looking around surreptitiously, Derek holds his hand out for the keyring. 

Eying Derek suspiciously, Stiles hands it over. “You’re still going to let me put the keyring on, right, because I’ve been working at that thing for ten minutes, you can’ tstop me now, I will cry-”

“Stiles,” Derek barks, “just hold on.” He inserts the tip of one of his nails into the keyring, then shifts that one finger into a claw, prying the ring open. “Now put the stupid keychain on my keyring.”

Stiles moves to do so, then pauses. Takes in Derek’s unenthusiastic expression. “I, uh, you don’t need to have the keyring on there if you don’t want it.”

“Just put the thing on before somebody sees.”

“But, you know, if you don’t... want it. I shouldn’t make you. I don’t have that right. Like, I have expectations that aren’t really fair, and don’t exactly take your feelings about the subject into account, so...” 

With a beleaguered sigh, Derek withdraws his claw and lets the keyring drop into his lap. “Um, I might not be as... ‘anti-keyring’ as you think.”

Furrowing his brows, Stiles says slowly, “so... I don’t think we’re talking about the keyring anymore.”

“You think, Stilinski?” Derek asks sarcastically. 

Spinning the keyring around his finger, Stiles allows, “so I might owe you an apology. For, uh, some stuff I said during the great fallout of, uh, well you know.”

Derek waits for what Stiles has to say next. For all that everybody gives him flack for being an emotional idiot, he seems to be reading Stiles pretty well. That just makes Stiles feel more guilty. In a different world, he wonders if they might have gotten together naturally, just realized how much they actually clicked, become the couple that nobody saw coming. 

Instead, from a ruler’s distance away from Derek, on a seagull crap covered bench in Monterey, Stiles says “you aren’t an asshole.” Just to make things right. He can’t hope for anything more than that. 

Derek’s jaw twists as he takes the information in, considers it, and finally says, “thanks. For that.”

Stiles clears his throat. “No problem dude. Um, you want the keychain?”

Derek pops open the keyring again. The keychain slides on, and now Derek’s keyring has some nautical spice to it. It’s not classy, but then again, neither is Derek. At least it’s black. Stiles could have picked the pink pirate hat keychain with the skull that had hearts for eyes. Derek doesn’t know how easy he got off. 

“It really isn’t so bad,” Derek says, looking at the keychain. 

Stiles feels better.

“I feel like we really missed out while we were in fairyland,” he jokes, “we never got a chance to punch the fairy queen in the face. Not that I’m not normally a chivalrous dude, but there’s not hitting a girl, and there’s not hitting the fairy who kind of made your life really... complicated.”

“It would have been worth it,” Derek agrees, clapping Stiles on the shoulder, “back to the car.”

“Where’s the question mark?” Stiles objects, following Derek anyway. “What if I’d wanted to, I dunno, swim in the ocean or something? Okay, bad example,” he allows, glancing at the murky bay water, “but my objection still stands. On principle.”

They reach the car, and Derek throws the keys at Stiles. 

“Ow! Jesus, words! Use your words!”

“Drive the car.”

Stiles blinks. “Those... are words. Are they words that make sense? No. Because I seem to recall you forbidding me from ever driving your beautiful soulmate, the camaro.”

Leaning against the hood of the car, Derek scowls and says, “I’m in a good mood. Take advantage now before I take the keys back.”

The camaro is warm under Stiles’ fingers, practically humming with harnessed mechanical energy. It’s gorgeous, and so is Derek, and Stiles isn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

“Your sacrifice dude,” Stiles drawls, taking on an exaggerated saunter as he moves to open the car. 

It’s a tense five miles as they leave Monterey and Derek’s hands never unclench from the “oh shit” bar above his head. Stiles may not be great at navigating traffic from this new vantage point, so much closer to the ground. But other than the handful of close calls, Stiles is loving it. His jeep is a beauty, but a kind of unconventional beauty, like the “quirky” girl in an indie movie, while the camaro is all Hollywood blockbusters, the drop-dead bombshell that walks away from an explosion without looking back. 

When the engine is contentedly humming up the highway, Derek’s fingers relax from their death grip on the “oh shit” bar, and he is sitting more or less normally, silent but for the occasional, “move a bit to the right,” and “slow down, for god’s sakes, don’t go ninety just because you can.” Derek is much more protective of the camaro’s body than his own. Werewolves are weird.

Twenty miles after that, Derek’s head is lolling against the window. 

Twenty miles after that, he’s asleep, and Stiles give himself an internal fistbump. He rocked the Alpha to sleep, oh yeah. There’s a creepy part of him that wants to pull over so he can just watch Derek doze, but the rest of him overrides it, not wanting to jeopardize their tentative peace.

Stiles can do this, he can drive them through the endless suburbs of the Bay Area, be the guardian of Derek Hale’s slumber: peaceful for once. He can carry the sleeping Alpha for a little while- for when Derek can’t do it himself. 

He does wake Derek up for the golden gate bridge. Derek grumbles about how it’s just a big, red, bridge, he doesn’t see what the big deal is, but he takes a picture with Stiles’ phone anyway. (Derek’s phone is an ancient flip top thing with a camera that takes pictures with about two pixels to them. Stiles doesn’t understand that man’s life choices.)

So Derek is mostly awake as they drive into Marin county, which Stiles has come to understand is basically rolling hill after rolling hill, covered with grass parched yellow by ever-present California drought. It’s a thrilling afterthought to the metropolitan bustle of San Francisco. Just thrilling. 

Stiles groans in relief when they pass a sign announcing their entrance into Sonoma County. “Wine country. Thank god. Way more interesting.”

“This is literally no different,” Derek points out, watching the endless yellow scrubland roll by.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Derek, can’t you just smell the grapes in the air? The pervasive sense of classiness just soaking into the car?”

“Classiness?”

“Wineries are classy.”

Derek snorts, like he’s sharing an inside joke with himself. 

“What?” Stiles asks defensively, adding, “just look at the names of these places! Infinity Wines, Golden Grove... they’re fancy. Or at least better than those hipster microbreweries we have upstate. And look at all of the bed and breakfasts! Everybody knows those are classy. I’ll bet people around here just go to art galleries and stay at B&Bs all the time.”

“Oh shit,” Derek whispers to himself.

Stiles is already slowing down the car. “What? What? Is somebody following us? I knew we got off too easy!” Dammit, every time they think they’re going to have a nice, supernatural free weekend...

“No, no, stop, no,” Derek assures him, “why are you stopping in the middle of the highway like an idiot, _go_.”

Accelerating back up again, Stiles mumbles “fine, fine, forgive me for being careful.”

“We just passed a familiar sign, that’s all.”

“Uh huh,” Stiles says skeptically. “That’s my usual reaction to memorable signs. ‘Oh shit.’”

There’s a squeak of leather as Derek shifts around uncomfortably, and Stiles wishes he weren’t driving, so he could really fix Derek with an accusing stare. Instead, he just demands, “tell me.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Nothing is ever nothing with you. Tell me. Teelll me.”

Derek sucks in a sharp inhale of breath, and Stiles suddenly feels like a douchebag. Prying into Derek’s memories never ends up being happy story sharing time. His dead family probably owned a winery or something.

Stiles is just about to take it back, say never mind, it’s cool, hey, you want to stop for water or something, when Derek says sheepishly, “ah, remember when I was planning a weekend for us at a B&B in wine country?”

“Oh,” the word is startled out of him, “uh, yeah. Back, uh, then. Well, that’s awkward.”

“We’re booked for tonight,” Derek adds in abruptly. 

Stiles blinks. “That’s a weird coincidence.”

“Ah...”

That’s Derek’s guilty tone. “What did you do?” 

“I booked a room for every weekend this month.”

Stiles bursts out into laughter. 

“I was being practical!” Derek moans, burying his face into his hands. “It was supposed to be a surprise for you, but if it turned out you already had plans that weekend, then I’d be prepared for the next weekend.”

“Good god.”

“It seemed like a good idea at the time. It doesn’t matter. I don’t know why I even brought it up.”

“Ah, crap, no, it’s fine,” Stiles backpedals. Derek’s withdrawing into himself, and isn’t this just reason #45876 that Stiles’ foot is in a committed relationship with his mouth. “I mean, you were under the influence when you booked them. I can’ t judge you for that.” 

A bubble of laughter emerges from Derek’s chest, and Stiles can’t help but look away from the road for a second to glance over in disbelief. “I just got so excited about the rose garden and the scenic view of the redwood forests, and the stupid jacuzzis...”

Stiles’ eyes flick down to the dashboard clock. They’ll be in Beacon Hills, the end of the line, by evening if they keep going at this rate. So Stiles keeps his tone light, casual, joking, and asks, “hang on. Jacuzzi? Could I be relaxing in the warm, jet-filled embrace of a jacuzzi right now?”

Yes,” Derek says immediately. His face is unreadable.

“Oh... I was expecting more of an argument than that.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Stiles can see Derek shrug evasively. “I’m not doing anything tomorrow. I don’t need to be in Beacon Hills by this evening.”

“Right,” Stiles agrees. That’s reasonable. “And it just makes good fiscal sense to use at least one of your reservations, right? To get your money’s worth.”

“Right.”

That’s all it is. They’re just taking advantage of a prepaid overnight stay at a fancy B&B. Good fiscal sense.

It’s another half hour before they make it to the place. It probably would have been a shorter drive if they hadn’t gotten lost down what Stiles is pretty sure was a road only for tractors. 

When they reach the B&B, a two story house nestled in a shaded clearing ringed by clusters of redwood trees, Stiles wonders if they accidentally wandered into a fairy tale. It’s a place that tourist magazines would call rustic, all exposed stone and handmade driftwood fences around vegetable gardens out front. A sign made from a cross section of a tree trunk cheerfully holds the name of the B&B, and the wooden front door is propped open by a stone sculpture of a frog. 

“This is adorable,” Stiles notes.

“Shut up.”

When they step inside, they’re greeted with an overpowering gust of lavender scent, and a gray haired woman in a brightly patterned caftan. 

“Hello!” she trills. “Let me see... are you the Hales?”

Clearing his throat, Derek steps forward, “yes.”

“Ooohoohoo!” She coos, clapping her turquoise ringed hands together, “so are you the young man I was speaking to on the phone? Who booked all the weekends?”

“Yes.”

Grinning widely, she nods at Stiles. “So this is him, huh? He’s a cutie.”

“Yes.” Derek seems to have short circuited at being confronted by so much bubbliness. He can only say one word.

“Let me just check you in,” her hands flutter over the tome on the welcome desk. “We have one other couple staying this weekend, so you can choose between the other two rooms. Would you like the ‘wizard’s tower’ room, or ‘Guinevere’s chambers?’”

Choking slightly on his laughter, Stiles turns to Derek, “why Der-Bear, you never mentioned that they had themes.”

“I thought you’d like it at the time,” Derek grits out.

“We’ll take the wizard’s tower,” Stiles tells the woman grandly. “I forgot my wand, I hope that will be alright?”

She guffaws uproariously. “You are too cute! Let me just take your bags and show you your room!”

“Oh no,” Stiles assures her hastily, “we can carry them.” She has to be at least fifty.

“Don’t you worry,” she says easily, hoisting his and Derek’s bags over one shoulder, “I’m the spryest lady in my pilates class. Now if you’ll just follow me up the stairs,” she points to the spiral staircase taking up the center of the entryway. “I’ve gotta say,” she adds to Stiles as they ascend the steps, “we book a lot of honeymooning couples here, and let me tell you, your beau here sounded just crazy about you when he made his reservations. I know my romantic couples, and gosh, this one’s a keeper!” she gushes, patting a very uncomfortable Derek on the arm. 

“ _Crazy_ about me, that sounds a bit right,” Stiles tells her. Sometimes he has a dark sense of humor.

“I think you gay couples are just the sweetest,” she says blithely as she unlocks their room, “it comes from having to fight so hard to be together, I think. But I am behind you 100%! I voted no on prop 8.”

“Uh, thanks?”

“No problem darling. Now you two enjoy yourselves, okay?” She gives Derek a downright lascivious grin. “You have a nice time tonight.”

Stiles watches the door close, commenting under his breath, “well at least she’s enthusiastic,” before turning to take in the “wizard’s tower.”

It’s kind of magic chic: a lot of blue and velvet, granite that looks like a night sky spangling the bathroom, round windows, and a tasteful bedspread spangled in stars stretched over the bed. The single bed.

Stiles points at it. “I should have guessed there would only be one.”

“It’ll be fine,” Derek says, and Stiles thinks about nights spent tangled in each other’s limbs, seeking warmth in the curve of shoulders, questing hands reaching downwards. Then he thinks about the heartbreak when it all went away, and hastily adds:

“Yeah. I mean, just for comfort. Wolf stuff.”

“Yes,” Derek agrees, “wolf stuff.”

He looks up, and Stiles can see the searching look in those blue-green eyes, asking for Stiles to drop the act, just fall into whatever Derek’s offering, but Stiles can’t. It’s been such a long road to feeling okay again, and Stiles doesn’t want to turn back around and watch everything inevitably crash down around his feet again.

So he claps his hands and bustles into the bathroom. “Gotta pee, whoo boy, we were in that car foreeveerr!”

Bedtime comes sooner than Stiles planned. The hours just sort of whizzed by, and now dinner is done, they’ve seen scenic downtown Sonoma, their pajamas are on, and Stiles is staring at the TV, trying to avoid looking at Derek. Derek who is sleeping shirtless tonight.

When the Late Late Show gives way to infomercials about blenders, Stiles switches the TV off. He settles into bed. Pulls the covers up to his neck. Sets his phone on silent. shifts the pillows around until he has the perfect height to fluffiness ratio. 

Derek gets out of bed and walks into the bathroom. Listening to the noise of the faucet, Stiles tries not to feel thirsty. He forgot his usual cup of water by the bed, but he’s so comfortable-

Derek’ arm reaches across him to set a glass of water on Stiles’ side table. Setting down his own glass, Derek whispers self-consciously, “I thought you wouldn’t want to get up.”

“Thanks,” Stiles whispers back, taking a sip, then lying back against the pillows. 

Beside him, Derek flips onto his side, displaying the muscled line of his back, the tattoo that Stiles has licked so many times, the weak spot to the left of his spine that Stiles has cradled his hand around over and over. If it wouldn’t lead to chaos and complications, Stiles would be on Derek in a second, but as it is, Stiles can only stare and salivate from afar.

In the morning, it turns out his unconscious self decided that it would also be a good idea to forcibly make Derek the little spoon. Stiles is pretty sure Derek is awake too, but for reasons that are slowly becoming clearer, Derek isn’t screaming and throwing Stiles off of him. So while the sun rises, they play a game of gay chicken- how long can they spoon while being aware, awake, and not in a relationship?

The answer turns out to be about forty five minutes of slow breathing and Stiles surreptitiously trying to smell Derek’s skin. (He figures it’s fair turnabout.)

Then a bell rings loudly from downstairs, and there’s a holler of “Breakfast! You had your bed and now here’s breakfast!”

“It is seven in the morning,” Stiles groans into the nape of Derek’s neck.

“Trust me,” Derek slurs sleepily, scrubbing a hand across his face, “I’ve noticed.”

By the time they stumble downstairs, the other couple staying at the B&B is already eating a healthy, protein-rich breakfast with their hiking boots laced and their sunscreen shellacked on. 

Stiles shares a quiet chuckle with himself at how Derek’s nose wrinkles up. 

The woman from the front desk makes a delighted shriek when they come into the dining room, and leaps for the kitchen.

“Lana is such a dear,” the guest with the binoculars already around her neck says to them. “She’s always so excited! I’m Josie, this is Tim. We’re birdwatchers.”

Stiles and Derek make assenting noises and simultaneously reach for the coffee pot.

“This is Derek and Stiles,” Lana sings out as she enters the room with an encouragingly large platter. “They are the cutest things, aren’t they?”

Lana starts prosaically relating the arrival of Derek and Stiles to the B&B, and Stiles just nods when he’s supposed to and digs into his breakfast. French toast. Yessss. He’s innocently munching on the crust when Lana says, “and they’re on their honeymoon! What an age we live in!”

Stiles head jerks up, and he stares at Derek. 

“Let me tell you,” Lana tells a smiling Josie as she ladles more eggs onto her plate, “I was talking to this young man,” she winks at Derek, “a few months ago, and he had the most adorable proposal plan. He was going to use a teddy bear, you see, a sort of inside joke between the two of them, and, well-” she flaps a hand at Derek and Stiles, “they can tell you the story much better than I can, of course.”

Derek looks mortified, a mixture of wolf-caught-in-the-headlights and hand-stuck-in-the-cookie-jar. Stiles gets a sense of overwhelming relief that at least they broke up before any premature proposals. 

“Well?” Lana asks expectantly.

Stiles takes a sip of coffee, says curtly, “it was beautiful. And private.” Then takes another sip. That should get them off the trail. Derek gives him a grateful look.

Lana clutches at her heart and gives Josie and Tim an “aren’t they just precious?” look, all shining eyes and quirked up eyebrows. 

Needless to say, it’s a long breakfast. Stiles and Derek silently agree to never speak of it again, and escape into the backyard as quickly as possible. 

“Woah,” Stiles marvels, “you weren’t kidding about the rose garden.”

“I wasn’t.”

The backyard consists of rows and rows of different strains of exotic roses, stretching out until they reach the tree line. Stiles goes to investigate what looks like a blue rosebush. It really is blue, a deep indigo near the base of the petal, blending into an almost white near the top. Stiles wonders if it’s a rare breed, or just crazy genetic modification. 

Derek is still standing near the back door to the B&B. Whatever, he’ll catch up. 

Stiles follows the little stone path around another row of rosebushes, reading their official latin names from the placards by the base of each bush. He can understand latin now, and it makes reading the scientific names much more entertaining. 

“Hey Derek-”

“It’s true!” Derek confesses.

“Wh-”

“I was planning on proposing.”

Stiles flings his arms backwards in surprise. They hit a rosebush, and he quickly reins them in. “I thought we’d made a silent pact to not speak about it!”

Derek tilts his head and looks at Stiles in confusion. “If it was a silent pact...”

“Shut up, I know it doesn’t make sense.”

Looking at his feet, Derek steps further into the rose garden. Stiles steps a little further backwards. It looks like Derek is preparing an apology or some similar guilt-inducing confession, and Stiles really doesn’t want one. Stiles casually saunters further away until he stumbles into the gazebo in the center of the garden. Derek follows. Dammit.

“I know this makes you uncomfortable,” Derek grits out, “but. I should. Apologize.”

Steeling himself, Stiles asks, “for what?”

“For some of the things I did while we were... together. I put a lot of pressure on you, and you’re only barely an adult, but I was planning all of these _things_ -”

“I’m going to cut you off right there,” Stiles holds his hands out like he’s directing traffic, “you were love spell drunk. It’s fine.”

“You’re okay?” Derek asks. He’s breathing really heavily.

“I’m okay,” Stiles says. 

Derek is standing really close to him. Very close, enough that Stiles can see the shadow of his head on Derek’s face. The morning light is hitting Derek just so, almost bleaching out his face so he looks ephemeral, despite not having shaved for two days. Over Derek’s muscular shoulder, Stiles can see a small ocean of dew covered roses swaying, slow dancing around each other in the light breeze, and somewhere on the roof of their darling white gazebo, a morning dove is cooing. 

That morning, Derek hadn’t gelled up his hair, so soft (Stiles _knows_ how soft) locks fall into his forehead, over his eyes, and Derek looks like nothing more than a lost boy, looking for something in Stiles. Derek leans closer. His eyes flick down to Stiles’ mouth. 

_“That’s not denial. That’s me.... losing interest.”_

Stiles leaps backwards. “Is that a _Rosa kordesii_?” he exclaims, exiting the gazebo to go examine the buds of a bush a few yards away. 

“I wouldn’t know,” Derek says quietly from where he’s still standing on the gazebo deck, frozen in aborted motion.

Stiles doesn’t know what to do anymore. 

It is probably this deep-set angst brewing within him that prompts him to drag Derek out wine tasting. They’re in wine country, he has a fake ID, Derek’s endless money supply to burn, and a burning desire to get drunk. Stiles knows what to do with that, at least.

The winery they end up at is ridiculously tacky, with sculptures of pigs dressed as chefs, and paintings with fake french words on them, but they have wine with unpronounceable names, and enough other tasters that Stiles, obviously not old enough to drink, can blend in.

The only problem is the ridiculously tiny glasses that the samples come in. 

“I don’t think you’re supposed to do them like shots,” Derek comments, his voice as dry as the wine.

Stiles slams down another glass onto the counter, missing the coaster entirely. “I’m supposed to get drunk somehow, I figure the only way to do it is by working through them quickly.”

“Is it working?”

Sighing deeply, Stiles examines his empty glass. “I might as well be a werewolf, I’m so sober.”

The winery... person behind the counter winces. 

“Figure of speech,” Stiles assures him.

“I assumed sir.”

“How much for like, three bottles of this stuff?” Stiles asks, pointing at his glass. “Not air, obviously, like, the wine that was in it.”

Winery guy gives them a price. It’s Stiles’ turn to wince.

“We’ll take three,” Derek says gruffly, and winery guy leaps to make the sale. 

As they get into the car, Stiles says, “you really didn’t need to do that.”

Derek shrugs. “I like wine too. I can’t get drunk, but the smell...”

Cackling, Stiles collapses into the passenger seat. “I had the funniest mental picture of werewolves sitting around in smoking jackets, being all ‘mmm, smoky aftertaste,’ and ‘oooh, fruity undertones.’ Like, you’d totally be a wine snob.”

So they end up sitting on the beach, passing the first bottle of wine back and forth like a couple of delinquent kids loitering, but classier. Way classier. 

“I need a tan,” Stiles mumbles, looking at his pale calves where he’s rolled his pants up. “I declare it shirts off time!” It isn’t to get Derek’s shirt off, really. 

But, coincidence of coincidences, Derek’s shirt does come off, and lands somewhere in the sand a few feet away. Stiles follows suit, and whatever, he doesn’t even care if he looks really bad in comparison to Derek, he’s drunk almost a whole bottle of Hubert Paulet. 

Stiles relaxes into the sand, feeling the small grains working their way into the waistband of his pants. That’s going to be a pain later. 

“D’rek,” he sighs, “why does sand always gotta be up in my grill?”

“I don’t know,” Derek drains the last few drops from the first bottle and opens the next one. “This is really good.”

“Mmmhmm,” Stiles agrees, burrowing himself further into his sand nest. It’s like a big, grainy blanket. Flexing his arms above his head, he asks, “you ev’r wish you could get drunk?”

Derek’s staring at something, Stiles notices as he scratches just below his nipple. “Do I have something on me?” he asks, looking for a bit of spinach caught in his ribs or something.

“No,” Derek assures him quickly. “I got distracted. And I’ve never really thought about getting drunk. It was one of those things that was impossible, so why bother.”

“S’nice,” Stiles informs him, with the sage wisdom of a... sage. “Like, you get all warm, and all the pointy thoughts that are all ‘look at me! Let me give you a hard time!’ kind of back off, you know?”

“I... think so?”

“Plus, it’s like, inhibitions are basically gone,” Stiles tells the mouth of the wine bottle conversationally before introducing it to his own mouth. “Mmm, like I could tell you basically whatever right now, and then later, when I’m sober and, and whatnot, I can be all ‘what are you talking about? I was drunk.’ So there.”

Derek’s fingers trace patterns in the sand, endless loops that converge on themselves. “What would you tell me?”

“Hyopthetically?”

“Yeah, hypothetically.”

Stiles watches a wave come in, soaking the sand below it, turning it a different color, then retreating again. Can’t commit, that wave. Can’t stick around. “Where’s that wave even going?” Stiles asks.

“Back into the ocean. I don’t know. Stiles, what would you say?”

“Y’know,” Stiles shrugs. “Stuff. Like, embarrassing confessions. Hey, what do you think, are those two girls friends or sisters?” he asks, pointing at a pair of twenty-somethings strolling along the water line.

“Uh, sisters. Stiles-”

“Because I’d say friends, like, you know how girls say that they’re sisters from another misters or whatever? Like how guys say brother from another mother?”

“Sure, they’re friends,” Derek reaches for the wine bottle, “earlier, you were saying...?”

“Huh? Oh. Yeah. So, Scott is basically my brother from another mother, escept Mrs. McCall is like my second mom, so I dunno how that works. N’then, if we can get her and my dad together, then she’ll be like, my mom mom. Which is weird. You know?”

Derek sighs for some reason, relaxing back into the sand. “I know. It’s like betrayal, replacing your family.”

“I dunno,” Stiles says quietly, tracing the neck of the wine bottle, up and down, up and down. He knows Derek is watching, but he isn’t sure why. “Like, my mom can’t be replaced. Besides, Mrs. McCall wants me to call her Melissa now that I’m an adult and stuff. So it’s not like I’ll ever be calling her mom. Which, good. That would be weird.”

“Are you... okay with your dad and Mrs. McCall?”

“I’m totally okay with it!” Stiles says loudly, sloshing some of the wine over his fingers. He licks them and Derek makes a weird noise. “Like, if they ever got their heads out of their asses and got together, I’d be so happy, because they make each other happy, you get it?”

“I get it,” Derek says into his arm. He has his face tucked into his elbow. “I really get it.”

“Cool.” Stiles lies back and lets the warm sand soothe the beginnings of a headache. “It’s like, they’re kind of perfect for each other, you know.”

“I get it,” Derek repeats.

They reach the green glass bottom of the last bottle around four that afternoon, then they (or rather, Stiles) dry out on the beach for the next few hours, trading increasingly embellished childhood stories. 

“So then Owen and I came inside, covered in mud from head to claw, and Momma just said, ‘and here they are now!’” Derek collapses into laughter. 

Stiles pulls out his phone and takes a picture.

“What was that for?”

“You were laughing,” Stiles hedges. “Rare event, I wanted to capture it. For posterity.”

Derek is looking at him skeptically, so Stiles jumps up. “There are some pretty precarious looking rocks over there, and I feel like doing some dangerous climbing.”

Derek grumbles something about Stiles getting himself killed one of these days, but follows anyway. Maybe to stop the aforementioned gruesome death. 

The particular beach they’re on is fenced in by cliffs on all sides, and in one section, the cliff has collapsed into smaller boulders, perfect for getting yourself into trouble on. The handholds aren’t quite handholds, and half of the boulders are damp and slippery, but they can still take Stiles well off the ground, up to where the ocean breezes become ocean gusts, plastering hair back and making the stubborn grasses clinging to the boulders shake and shudder.

Stiles reaches the apex of one of the boulders and stands, slipping for a moment before he learns to resist the nagging pull of the wind. He sucks in the salt in the air, lets it burn the muddled morass of emotion from his lungs. 

It’s beautiful, being up there. Of course it would be, this entire trip has been a roll call of one stunning location after another, places for dramatic leaping into arms and breathless confessions. 

Behind him, Stiles has a shadow shaped like Derek Hale, but Stiles doesn’t want to turn around and see him. There’s only so much that Stiles can handle, and Derek in the amber light of the sunset, rock climbing as surely as if he’s ascending a set of stairs isn’t one of them. 

So Stiles lifts up a foot, wavers slightly, then takes a step further along the rocks, walking his way into oblivion. Just forget, just let yourself be empty-headed for a moment-

He slips. Of course he does. For one careening second, all Stiles can see is imminent, jagged rock, and he squeezes his eyes closed-

It doesn’t come as a surprise when Derek catches him, muscled arms looping around Stiles’ chest and pulling him backwards, then sitting him down on a bench-like outcropping. Derek does a lot of last minute saving. 

Exhaling shakily, Stiles feels the solidness of the rock under his feet and says, “phew. Close call.”

Derek nods. He still hasn’t let Stiles go, is kneeling between Stiles’ knees, face tucked into Stiles’ shoulder, arms around his waist, clutching like Stiles is the last bottle of water in a desert. They’re approaching critical mass of emotional intensity again, so Stiles makes to stand up, and Derek grips harder around Stiles’ waist, anchoring him down. 

“Can you just...” he breathes into Stiles’ shoulder, “let me do this for one second?”

Stiles looks down at the man that has just saved his life, or at the very least his ass, and thinks that maybe it’s too late to try to distance himself. Maybe they passed the point of no return long ago, and now all that Stiles can do is see where this new road leads. It’s probably going to hurt, but as he lowers his face to the top of Derek’s head, breathes in the softness of his hair, lets his arms tighten in return around Derek’s neck, it becomes clear that he’s in for the ride anyway. 

Derek whispers, “your heart is beating really quickly.”

Stiles whispers back, “I’m terrified.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is becoming increasingly clear to me that I have no idea how classy things like wine tastings and B&Bs work.


	14. A Teddy Bear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For this chapter, if you haven't heard the songs "Thrift Shop" or "Teenage Dream" I suggest you listen (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QK8mJJJvaes and http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=98WtmW-lfeE) or parts of this chapter won't really make sense.

They don’t bother with pretense when they get back to the B&B. It’s their last night there, after which comes the glaring uncertainty of what they’ll do when they get back home, so it doesn’t seem right to waste time with veiled comments and wordless hints.

So when night falls, they both get into their pajamas: Stiles in his threadbare The Hulk T-shirt, and Derek in his pinstriped pajama bottoms -it’s a colder night, no reason to only wear boxers anymore- then they climb into bed. Derek lays his head on Stiles’ shoulder, and Stiles’ arm comes up around Derek’s waist, and Derek falls asleep. 

Stiles can’t sleep, it seems like it would be a waste of time, like there’s more he can do right here, awake, cataloguing every last detail. Derek’s head is a warm weight on his shoulder, and Stiles knows that his arm is going to be tingling by the morning, but Stiles still holds incredibly still, lest he accidentally shake Derek off. 

Through the window, Stiles can see the tiny lights illuminating the rose garden, twinkling gently, casting the faintest of golden lights over their room, over Derek’s skin -dusty blue in the shadows. Derek looks like he’s underwater, muscles lax and skin blue, hair fanning out around his face like a halo. 

Imagining Derek as a grumpy merman, Stiles chuckles quietly, then hushes himself when Derek stirs slightly. He’s relaxed, which is such a rarity that Stiles doesn’t want to jeopardize it. 

Around the time that the moon is visible through their window -waning gibbous, nothing to worry about- Stiles is asleep, head resting just above Derek’s whose blue-black hair tickles his nose. 

Stiles dreams of a rose opening to reveal a spout of wine inside, which pours a mulberry river down down down until it’s an ocean crashing, but Stiles is watching the wine-red waves push against the shore from the comfort of a starry hammock swinging far above it all. The hammock is warm and muscled, smelling ever so slightly of pine. 

When Stiles wakes up, he finds he migrated during the night until he had his head tucked under Derek’s chin. Derek is mostly awake, his eyes blearily gazing down at him, but Stiles doesn’t feel like moving, since the sheets have reached that point of perfect temperature that makes Stiles reluctant to leave. Stiles tugs the blanket up higher and rolls onto his side to curl further into Derek’s chest. 

In doing so, his “morning excitement” that they’ve both been tactfully ignoring comes into contact with Derek’s own. 

Stiles freezes in indecision. So does Derek, whose hand is still resting on Stiles’ lower back. 

“Do you, uh,” Stiles begins hesitantly, “want me to move?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

They lie there, pressed close, but too nervous to press any closer, for hours. Stiles drifts between asleep and not, alternating between sleeping off the few remainders of tipsiness from the day before, and jerking awake, suddenly terrified that Derek had left. He never does. Not until Stiles glances at the clock on the side table and pats Derek on the arm. 

“Twenty minutes to checkout.”

“Oh,” Derek groans, running a hand through his disheveled hair to look at the clock himself. “Right.”

They get on the I5 and head north. It’s the home stretch to Beacon Hills, and Stiles feels the miles move by faster and faster, like somebody supercharged time so it runs a bit quicker than usual. 

When they aren’t cooped up together in a car, what will they do? Have occasional cuddle sleepovers? A hug at the end of pack meetings? Where are they now and where will they be, and how do they fall off of this tightrope they’ve been walking?

Stiles idly rereads his last few texts from Lydia for something to do.

_An extra day?_

_Sorry, what?_

_A B &B. Really._

_What are you getting yourself into?_

Sometimes Lydia reads his mind so well that it’s scary.

“Radio?” Derek asks.

“Yeah, alright.”

Thrift Shop blasts through the speakers loud enough to rattle the windows. Derek groans and claps the hand not on the steering wheel over an ear. 

“Sorry, sorry, I may have been planning a little prank, forgot about that,” Stiles rushes out as he leaps for the volume dial. 

Once the volume is down and both of Derek’s hands are back on the wheel, Stiles feels less guilty about singing along to the lyrics. It’s not cool to sing when the driver is in physical pain, but after that, there’s only so much willpower a guy has, and nobody has enough willpower not to sing along to Thrift Shop. 

“Dookie brown leather jacket that I found diggin' They had a broken keyboard, I bought a broken keyboard I bought a skeet blanket, then I bought a kneeboard Hello, hello, my ace man, my Mello John Wayne ain't got nothing on my fringe game, hell no I could take some Pro Wings, make them cool, sell those The sneaker heads would be like ‘Aw, he got the Velcros,’” Stiles rattles out, thumping his foot against the floor of the car.

“Just when I thought you couldn’t talk faster.”

“Shut up Derek. Okay, you’ve gotta know this bit: _I’m gonna pop some tags, only got_ ”

“... twenty dollars in my pocket...” Derek obediently, but unenthusiastically, joins in.

“Yeah, that’s right! I-I’m hunting, looking for a come-up,”

“This is fucking awesome!” They call out over the censored hush of the radio. 

“I can tell you’re grinning smugly,” Derek says, keeping his eyes on the road. 

“You have music in your heart, Derek. You can’t deny it any longer.”

“It’s just better than ‘a hundred bottles of beer on the wall.’ That’s not an accomplishment.”

“Uh-huh. Okay, okay,” Stiles crows as the next song comes up, “nobody can resist singing along to this one. _You think I’m pretty, without any makeup on-_ ”

“You forget that I wasn’t a teenager when this came out. I barely know the words.”

“Now eevverry February, you’ll be my Valentine, valentine...”

Derek huffs, rolling his eyes. “This is ridiculous, I- _let’s go alll! The way tonight! No regrets! Just love!_ ” he hollers out suddenly. Stiles didn’t know he had it in him. “ _We. Can. Dance! Until we die! You and I! Will be young forevveeerrr!_ No, why did you stop singing, now I look like an idiot. Stop laughing!”

Stiles wheezes for breath and shakes his head, smearing his face against the car window. _This._ He just wants _this._

“You. Make. Me. Feel like I’m living a. Teen. Age. Dream. The way you turn me on,” Stiles sings hoarsely. 

They zip up the I5 to Katy Perry, Derek hitting some pretty impressive high notes as they go. Stiles peters out around “This is real, so take a chance and don’t ever look back, don’t ever look back,” but Derek makes it to the end of the song, and Stiles can’t help but giggle when the song references skin-tight jeans and Derek pauses awkwardly, looking down at his own jeans, which are probably just as tight as Katy Perry’s are.

The song dies out and fades into something else, but Stiles isn’t really listening anymore. 

“Hey,” he says over a few strains of soft guitar, “we should, you know, keep doing this.”

“Driving?”

“No, no, we have to go home at some point, I just mean, uh, don’t let it get weird when we’re back home.”

“I don’t know,” Derek says dryly, “I like being uncomfortable and awkward.”

Snickering, Stiles relaxes into his seat. This sounds good to him. 

XXXXX

By the time they drive into Beacon Hills, they’ve stopped for gas twice, took a detour to stretch their legs three times, and switched drivers once. 

0 miles, Stiles thinks as they pass the “Welcome to Beacon Hills” sign. 

Derek is asleep in shotgun, his chin on his chest, eyelids gently shut, and his face flashes alternately black and gold as they pass under the yellow pools cast by the sodium streetlights. It’s the middle of the night. Their drive was more leisurely than necessary, so now Stiles drives through the abandoned streets of a small town after everybody has gone to sleep. It’s like an alternate dimension where everything looks slightly different- just enough to be disorienting, not enough to be outright worrying. 

Derek stirs in his sleep, and Stiles doesn’t want to wake him up more than necessary, so he drives straight to Derek’s loft. 

“Heeeyyy sleepyhead.” Stiles ruffles the hair on top of Derek’s head. 

“Ng.”

“Come on. We’re home.”

Rubbing at his eyes, Derek sits up straighter, reaching for his seatbelt. Stiles has seen him sleepy more times in the last few days than he has in weeks. He’d forgotten how adorable it is.

Derek, mostly asleep, leans on Stiles while they walk in, and his neck is bared, vulnerable, while his head rests on Stiles’ shoulder, but apparently Derek isn’t worried about it. 

By the time they reach the apartment door, Derek is awake enough to fumble in his pocket for his keys and insert them into the door, open it, and wearily step inside. 

Stiles hesitates in the doorway. “I can drive the camaro to my house and, like, return it later.” He hooks a thumb over his shoulder. 

Derek swings around to stare at him. His hair is sticking straight up on one side. “Don’t be stupid.” 

He holds out a hand, and Stiles takes it, and they walk up the curving staircase. 

It’s the first time Stiles has been in Derek’s room since Before, and it’s so similar he stops for a second to take it in. Same minimal decoration, same monochromatic clothes strewn across the floor, same large window set in the wall, giving a view of the industrial end of Beacon Hills.

But it’s different too, in a less visible way. _They_ were so different the last time they shared time here. Their relationship was so easily definable -”boyfriends”- opinions on it so clear cut. They were like a cartoon marked out in violent color, and clear, steady lines. Now they muddle their way through an abstract watercolor of a relationship, where Stiles knows he’s welcome in Derek’s bed, but possibly only for sleep. 

Stiles pulls his hoodie off over his head and pries himself out of his sneakers. He tries to do it without bending over to untie them, so naturally he stumbles, and ends up flying, or falling, towards the dresser. Catching himself on its edge with one hand, Stiles glances at the top of the dresser and freezes. 

Sitting there, next to a few misplaced socks and an empty water bottle, is a teddy bear. It’s soft and brown, wearing an ascot, and watching Stiles curiously with button black eyes. 

He kept it. 

“What is it?” Derek asks from the bed. He’s already tucked under the sheets. 

“You kept it.”

“Wh- oh.”

Stiles reaches out and picks the teddy bear up. It sits, warm and comforting, in his shaking hand. “I thought you were going to toss it out.”

“Donate it.”

“Same difference.”

They fall silent, their words sucked into the gaping question of the bear. 

“So,” something is stuck in Stiles’ throat, and he coughs, trying so clear it. “So, it’s still here.”

Derek is sitting up in bed, wide awake now. “I couldn’t toss it out.”

“Why not?”

“You know why.”

“Say it?” Stiles asks, and his voice sounds like a kid’s, plaintive, unsure. 

Derek swallows, and his fists clench once, twice. “I’m bad at words.”

Stiles holds his arms out helplessly. “So am I. I just use a lot of them to make up for it.”

Standing up, Derek grasps one of the teddy bear’s paws. “Fine. When I bought this,” he beings wearily, “I couldn’t stop smiling. I think the people at the store thought I was insane. I was just thinking about you, and your smile, and how I was going to ask you out, and I was so _happy._ I was also high out of my mind on love spell,” he adds ruefully, raising his eyebrows. Stiles chuckles bitterly. “But I was happy. Jubilant. I couldn’t... the bear reminds me of that feeling. I didn’t want to get rid of it.”

“Even when you found out about the...” Stiles doesn’t want to say it, so he waves a finger around his temple. 

Derek gets it. “Even then. You still... you still made me happy. You never stopped doing that. Or, well, mostly. We’re never _perfect_ , some days you drive me insane.”

“I don’t give a fuck about perfect,” Stiles says. The words come out with more heat than he intended, but it’s true. If he wanted perfect, he never would have responded to Derek’s advances in the first place. Derek is beautifully imperfect, and Stiles likes him that way. 

Blinking, Derek continues, “well, good. Perfect is a pain in the ass. But I don’t know, while I was,” he imitates Stiles’ “love spell” hand gesture, “everything seemed perfect. Even if it wasn’t. When it was wearing off, I couldn’t understand why I wasn’t crazy about you anymore. I do mean crazy,” he adds ruefully. “I had a lot of trouble sleeping, because I was thinking about you _constantly_.”

Stiles laughs outright at that. When you put some distance on the whole love spell thing. It does seem ridiculous. God, there were so many _flowers._

“Then we broke up,” Derek recalls, lot in his own story, “and I was so sad, and so mad, and confused, and so were you-”

“I was furious.”

“Yeah. And I said some bad stuff, and, and so did you-”

“It’s true.”

“But then things got a bit better, and when we stopped in that crappy hotel by Big Sur-” Derek snaps his jaw shut and grimaces.

“What?”

“It’s stupid.”

“No, Derek,” Stiles protests, “is this your big romantic realization? Because I want to here this! For posterity!” at Derek’s incredulous expression, Stiles modifies, “so I can gossip with Erica about it!”

Looking like he regrets everything, Derek resumes, “we were in the hotel by Big Sur, and you talked in your sleep. You said... ‘dalek.’”

Stiles blinks. “Dalek? As in, the evil robot aliens?”

“Dalek.”

“Huh. I would have thought I’d said-”

“That’s what I thought you said at first too,” Derek agrees, fiddling with the teddy bear so much it looks like he’s fondling it, “and I was deliriously happy, and realized how much I- you know.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, because he does.

“And then you said ‘dalek’ again, and I realized you weren’t saying my name.”

“What a buzzkill.”

“Yeah.” Derek rearranges the teddy bear’s ascot. “But it made me want to not be an asshole. For, uh, for you. So you’d say my name in your sleep.”

Stiles grins widely, because Derek is jumping off of the tightrope, and they’re going to do this. Holy god, it’s Derek and Stiles Drama, Part II, and Stiles is going to go for it. 

“So, uh, are we making up?” he asks, grabbing the teddy bear’s other paw. 

Derek glances up, and his expression is hopeful. It’s glorious, Derek should just make that expression all the time. “Do you want to?”

Stiles waggles his eyebrows. “I’d rather make _out_.”

Smiling, Derek replies, “that’s terrible.”

“But enticing, right?”

“Right.”

Stiles pounces before Derek can say another word. He is done with words for tonight, so help him. 

It’s a terrible kiss. Their teeth clack together, and they have a teddy bear trapped between them, and Derek has been thrown off balance by Stiles’ aforementioned pounce. 

It’s okay, though. They never asked to be perfect. They never had it easy. But nothing good ever comes easy. 

They can figure out how to kiss properly later. They can tell the pack and deal with their knowing expressions later. They can return their breakup boxes to each other’s houses later. They can figure out new rituals and inside jokes that fit them, the real them, later. 

For now, Derek and Stiles collapse onto the bed, and decidedly do not sleep. 

**THE END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CALM DOWN I KNOW IT'S SHORT THERE WILL BE AN EPILOGUE. It just ended so nicely here. Write suggestions for fluff you'd like to see in the epilogue in the comments.


	15. A Happy Ending

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UNABASHED FLUFF! And here I thought I was incapable of writing it anymore.

There’s nothing quite like the sunrise over Beacon Hills, viewed through the massive windows of their apartment. 

Or so Stiles imagines. Right now he’s more focused on the coffeemaker. 

“Our old one made so much more sense,” he whines, sleep-addled eyes taking in the multitude of buttons. What is this, NASA mission control? “Why can’t we go back to that one?”

“Because this one was a wedding present,” Derek grumbles from behind him. “I’m making the bacon, you figure it out.”

Such was the trouble with having Lydia plan their wedding. She’d handled everything from the garnishes on the appetizers to the gift registry, and then they ended up with exotic mediterranean parsley on the canapes, and enough technology in their kitchen to arm a spaceship. 

Stiles ends up just punching the big round button that says “brew” and hoping for the best. The machine pops out two cups of what Stiles thinks might be lattes. He doesn’t even know where the milk came from, he certainly didn’t put any in. Sighing, he carries the two mugs into the living room and sets them on the coffee table. 

Walking back into the kitchen, he grabs a plate and Derek empties a pan of bacon onto it, and Stiles drops four pieces of toast into the toaster -a stainless steel contraption with eight openings for toast that was another wedding present- and ducks into the fridge for butter, and Derek grabs the toast as it pops up and sets them on another plate, and Stiles spreads the butter and Derek finishes the last of the bacon and they take the plates into the living room to join the coffee and they sit down on the couch, facing the TV. 

Just another breakfast in the Stilinski-Hale household. 

Stiles turns on the local news - “KRCR: your source for news in Redwood Country!”- and settles into his plate of bacon-y goodness.

“Did your dad say exactly when they’re airing the segment about him?” Derek asks around a mouthful of toast, a trace of butter in his morning beard.

Stiles loves him so much. 

Shrugging, Stiles says, “he said it was on the 5AM news today. So, sometime in the next two hours.”

Sighing heavily, Derek glances at the traces of the barely risen sun out the window and takes a gulp of coffee.

At 6:37, the 15 year retrospective on John Stilinski’s reign as Sheriff airs, (it’s been a slow news... year in Beacon Hills, KRCR gets its stories where it can,) and Derek is stretched out across the couch (and Stiles) sleeping off his breakfast.

They’ve spent so many mornings, afternoons and nights curled up like this, ignoring the invasive just of elbows and knees, the clack of hipbones when they collide, that Stiles can lie there with Derek’s crushing weight on his chest and still breathe. It’s even nice. Scott and Allison, who beat them to the altar by a year, make fun of them for still being in their honeymoon phase, all cuddles and shared breakfasts, but Stiles brushes it off. He and Derek were touchy before they put a ring on it, and they’re touchy now. They’ve got this marriage thing down pat. 

“Now, we turn to Cory Makitani, who brings us a story about a pillar in the Beacon Hills community, Sheriff John Stilinski,” the anchor announces around her blindingly white teeth. 

“Mmm, Derek,” Stiles urges, patting Derek on the ass, “wake up, it’s time for the thing.”

Derek dutifully pulls himself out of dreamland and twists his head on Stiles’ chest so he can see the TV. 

“Sheriff John Stilinski is a fixture in the Beacon Hills community,” the reporter intones, “and is one of their most prized citizens.”

The reporter goes on to chronicle the life and times of John Stilinski (it’s been a really, really slow news year,) glossing over the brief period of time he was fired, and celebrating how he and his department wrapped up the “mountain lion situation” in the early ‘10s, like the situation resolved itself through crack detective work instead of through the shenanigans of a few crazy teenagers. 

(Okay, so Stiles gets that the news doesn’t know who really solved the mountain lion problem, but he still wishes he got a little credit, come on.)

“Sheriff Stilinski plans to stay with the department until he retires with his wife Melissa to, as he says, ‘some place sunny,’” the reporter concludes with a scripted chuckle. “And best of luck to him. Back to you, Cindy.”

“My dad everybody,” Stiles crows, “famous.”

Derek pats Stiles’ side wearily. “Yes dear.”

Dear. Like Stiles is some kind of fifties housewife. He may make the coffee, but he has a spine, thank you. A spine that he really feels like showing off this morning, maybe in a flexible and athletic way.

With a low thud, Derek hits the floor.

“What was that for?” he protests.

Grinning mischievously, Stiles leans over the edge of the couch to look Derek in the eye. “Derek, my darling dalek, don’t call me dear.”

Smirking, Derek shoots back, “but it gets a rise out of you. How can I resist that?”

Stiles knows that smirk. It’s the one Derek gives him when he has something wicked in mind, and yeah, alright, Stiles is onboard.

“And why do you want a rise out of me?” Stiles slowly slips over the edge of the couch to lie on top of Derek on the floor.

Derek winks. “I like it when you’re feisty.”

“Hmmm,” Stiles hums thoughtfully as he leans down to meet Derek’s lips. “So if I were to pin you down right now and fuck you into the floor, would that be considered feisty?”

He can literally watch Derek’s pupils expand from here. It is and has always been awesome to watch Derek react like that. 

Naturally, the doorbell rings right at that moment. 

Groaning, Stiles levers himself off of Derek’s warm, willing body and pads towards the door in his socked feet. As much as he likes how often their friends come by to visit, that rule does not apply when he’s about to engage in some wedded bliss with his husband, thank you very much.

Stiles unlocks the door, swings it open, sees the grinning face of the fairy queen, swings it shut again, and relocks the door. 

Derek’s head pokes up from the floor. “What is it? Why are you freaking out?”

From where he’s bracing his body against the front door, Stiles hisses, “it’s her.”

Clenching his hands in exasperation, Derek hisses back, “we know a lot of women, you’ll have to be more specific!”

“The... the fairy queen.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

Derek makes a beeline for their emergency kit, which has stayed mostly closed and underneath their sink for a few years now. “Why now?”

“You think I know? Beats me.” 

Stiles can hear murmuring behind the door. Enchanted woodwork protecting them or no, it’s very unsettling. He thought they were done with this. It’s been years, no weird reports from the woods or anywhere within a 1000 mile radius, not a hint of fairy activity anywhere. Of course they had to show up now. Maybe the slow news year is coming to an end. 

Pulling out a vial of lemonwort tincture, Derek stalks towards the door, eyebrows low and shoulders tensed. 

“Open the door,” he orders calmly, his voice taut like a rubber band. 

Stiles does, and Derek leaps forward, a spear of violent motion, to dash the tincture onto the... large box wrapped in shiny red paper and a sparkly golden bow sitting in their doorway. 

It reminds Stiles of a ticking time bomb, but they inch closer anyway. 

“Smell anything?”

“Wood?” Derek shrugs. “Cardboard, ribbon...”

“It’s just a present!” chirps a voice from behind them. 

With matching startled yells, Derek and Stiles spin around to see the fairy queen and Fen standing in the middle of their living room. 

The two fairies -or faeries, Stiles isn’t sure what they’re going by now- look like somebody squished them together and then separated them again, but not quite effectively. Pieces of the queen’s eclectic wardrobe have been replaced by Fen’s plain linen style, but Fen himself is wearing a tie-die vest for reasons Stiles can’t begin to understand.

Stiles recovers first, saying challengingly, “we don’t want any kind of ‘present’ from you. Get out.” 

The queen holds out her hands, palms up, and Stiles tenses, remembering the whizz of pink flames past his ear. 

Derek leaps in front of Stiles, which is probably overkill. 

“Whoopsie,” she lowers her hands, “bad idea, am I right? I’m trying to signal we’re peaceful. Fenny and I” Fen lets out a beleaguered sigh at this, “just wanted to give you a wedding present.”

“It’s late, we can’t take it,” Stiles says immediately. 

“Do not be so hasty,” Fen admonishes, “faerie gifts are powerful devices.”

Leaping over to the door in one smooth, gravity defying move, the queen picks up the box, holding it precariously over her head. 

“Are you going to unwrap it? Because if you won’t, then I will,” she tells them, winking.

Derek and Stiles stare at her silently, still locked in almost battle stances, afraid to blink. 

“Unwrapping it myself then,” she mutters. “So nervous. One little prank-”

Derek laughs harshly in the back of his throat.

“Please,” Fen interjects, “if everyone would calm down. Mone has been retreating from her old practices of fairy... silliness, the faerie folk are living peacefully in the woods once again, and there is no need for conflict here.”

“Exactly, Fenny,” Mone replies, pulling on one of the long golden ribbons. It unfurls, and with it, the entire box falls open, sides folding away to reveal the present inside: a small loop of wood.

At Derek and Stiles’ dubious expressions, Mone chuckles, “I know it doesn’t look like much, but trust me, a few years ago it would have been this plus a lot of glitter, so I think this is better.”

“They want to know what it’s for, Mone,” Fen nudges.

“Oh. Well, isn’t it obvious?”

“It’s reaaalllyy not,” Stiles tells her, glancing over at the emergency kit still lying on their kitchen floor. If he makes a run for it, maybe he can find a second vial of lemonwort before she blasts him into a pile of ash. 

“It’s my specialty,” she picks up the loop, spinning it around a finger. “Marriage is boring. So when you start to hate each other’s guts, just pop this on one of your wrists and poof! You’re head over heels once again!”

See, here’s the thing. 

Stiles isn’t the biggest fan of gratuitous violence. He’s seen enough of it. He’s gotten to the point where watching pointless fistfights on TV makes him annoyed enough to change the channel, and action movies make him uncomfortable unless the violence is so absurd that it isn’t realistic anymore. He is especially not a fan of hitting girls. Gender equality is cool and all, it still just doesn’t quite seem right. 

But in this particular case, he can’t really begrudge Derek for bodily throwing the fairy -faerie?- queen across the room. She lands with a smack and it’s incredibly cathartic. 

Screeching like an overboiling tea kettle, she leaps up to her feet, a hand outstretched above her head, poised to attack. Derek growls, bristling and shifting into his Beta form. 

Thankfully, Fen, cool as crystal, grips Mone’s wrist and gently lowers it. “I suggest we take our leave.”

The air between their two camps trembles with possibility. 

Inhaling deeply through her nose, Mone lowers her hand. “You’re lucky I’m turning over a new leaf, Hale.” 

“You’re lucky I don’t rip your throat out,” Derek growls back. 

Stiles rests a hand on Derek’s back. He’s practically lost count of the years they’ve been together, in one form or another, but one constant will always be Derek’s terrible one-liners. 

“Mone wanted to give you a wedding present,” Fen says slowly and carefully. “Now she has given it. We will leave now.”

And they’re gone. 

They both glance around the room, panting. It’s empty, just their usual mismatched furniture, jackets slung across the back of chairs, the dead potted plant in the window from Stiles’ gardening phase. 

“Well our morning got dramatic fast,” Stiles comments.

Derek lets out a mixture of a relieved sigh and a grumble, winding an arm around Stiles’ waist and pulling him in. Stiles lets himself get tucked against Derek’s chest and murmur nonsense to him for a few minutes while Derek calms down enough to shift back to human. 

“Shh, yeah, it was fine, like, totally anticlimactic, bad story-telling really, can’t just introduce a villain and have them leave without anything getting blown up. Although come to think of it, the queen might have scratched the varnish on the floors, but I dunno about that, I’ll look later. But hey, hey, it’s cool. I’m alive, you’re alive, everybody lives!”

Derek pulls his face out of Stiles’ shoulder. His eyebrows have reappeared, and his face is back to human again. 

“What do we do with it?”

Stiles looks at the innocuous wooden bracelet lying in a pile of wrapping paper on the floor. 

Two years into being OMG-lyk-totally-official!! he and Derek had broken up. It was the third worst stretch of weeks that Stiles had ever gone through. It was five years in before they really stopped arguing about every little thing, even if those arguments were mostly just for fun. Even today, sometimes Stiles just wants some time to himself, to escape Derek’s omnipresence for a little bit. They have their bad moments.

But. There’s also a whole lot of buts. (And butts. Haha, puns.) Stiles is a morning person now because if he wakes up early, then he can spend an hour or so just cuddling into Derek’s side before he has to go to work at the high school. For all the times (one and a half, he’ll have you know,) that Stiles and Derek have broken up, Lydia and Jackson have broken up twice as often, and Scott and Allison three times. Derek is literally the only human being on the planet that truly understands Stiles’ fascination with watching people bungee jump, but also his deep-seated fear of doing it himself. Stiles loves Derek. Like, so much. The sort of love that sits in his chest and is sure and stable and kind, calms him down when it’s been a long day at work, excites him when it’s Saturday night, and they have the whole night, and then morning, and then the day after that to do whatever they want.

The sort of love that makes him turn to Derek and say, “let’s destroy it?”

And Derek, always more in sync with Stiles that anybody outside of their bubble could ever guess, nods, and agrees, “let’s destroy it.”

XXXXX

“Lemonwort?” Lydia asks, holding out a manicured hand.

“Here.”

“Sage?”

“Here.”

“Distilled cabbage root?”

“Here.”

“Matches?”

“Here,” Stiles hands her the packet. “That’s it, right?” he twists his head to read through the purification ritual that Deaton had given them.

“Mmm-hmm,” Lydia answers, arranging the ingredients as she likes within the yet-to-be-lit fire pit. “Should burn up the bracelet and the spell with it.”

From where Scott is lounging in a folding camp chair, he pipes up, “wait, so I don’t even get why she gave it to you in the first place?”

Allison pats Scott’s knee, “in case they ever, you know, got bored of each other or something.”

Scott blinks. “But they wouldn’t do that.”

“Which is why we’re burning it,” Derek cuts in as he enters the campsite bearing their food. “It’s symbolic.”

“But it just doesn’t make any sense in the first place,” Scott protests, “you guys are like, _perfect._ If anybody would need a magic love bracelet, it would be Jackson and Lydia for when Lydia finally gets sick of this guy.” He elbows Jackson in the ribs.

“Shut up, McCall,” Jackson shoots back good-naturedly.

“Your faith in our relationship is appreciated, Scotty,” Stiles says dryly as he lights a match and touches it to the bundle of sage. 

Lydia drips lemonwort tincture over the bracelet, then directs, “alright, go.”

The bracelet goes up in pink flames. Of course. It reminds Stiles a bit of a firework, if fireworks smelled like burnt sugar. Stiles breathes the stink in with satisfaction. 

“So who has the s’mores?” he asks, looking up from the flames and feeling a wicked grin spread across his face.

Erica already has a few speared, and once the flames turn gold and they pile some real firewood into the pit, they all lean back into their camp chairs and enjoy the campfire the way it was meant to be enjoyed- as a cooking device for sugary snacks.

Stiles and Derek have one of those camp chairs that’s more like a camp love seat, so when the night gets colder than Stiles’ jacket can handle, he leans into Derek for warmth, stealing a bite of Derek’s s’more before he leans down to rest his head in Derek’s lap. 

“Hey,” Derek protests through a mouthful of marshmallow goop.

“You always get like eight s’mores, you can handle a little poaching,” Stiles mutters, scraping his cheek against Derek’s leg. 

Derek arches an eyebrow. “I could starve.”

Fluttering his eyelashes, Stiles coos, “I will always be there to nurse you back to health, my darling dalek.”

“Get a room!” Erica hollers at them from across the camp fire. 

“We only have tents!” Stiles hollers back. “Wasn’t it your idea to make this a camping trip in the first place? Poor planning, Erica. Poor planning.”

“I always think I’ve built up a tolerance to them,” Erica grumbles to Boyd, “and then they go and do this shit.”

Grinning, Stiles lowers his head back down onto Derek’s legs. He doesn’t mind “this shit.” Not at all. Not if this shit means the crackle of a camp fire surrounded by his friends, the solidity of Derek under his cheek, and the promise of a warm bed and a deep sleep that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you liked this work by Survivah, you may also enjoy:  
> [A Simple Life](http://archiveofourown.org/works/749767) (Fluffy Fox!Stiles and Learningtobefuncitonal!Derek)  
> [This is How it Was](http://archiveofourown.org/works/677318) (If you can brave the MCD tag, it's actually very sweet, I swear)  
> [Where the Inevitable Isn't ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/624888/chapters/1128375) (Parallel universe fun. Established Sterek in one, not in the other. Also rebel warfare.)  
> [Raised By Wolves Series](http://archiveofourown.org/series/32558) (Childhood Sweetehearts fluff)  
> [The List](http://archiveofourown.org/works/620230) (Dark!Sterek)  
> [And more!](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Survivah/works)  
> And you can follow me on [tumblr](http://optimismology.tumblr.com/) if you're into fic updates and nothing else.  
> #Shamelessselfpromotion


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